Redridge
by fmmrhx
Summary: A small town clerk for Lakeshire becomes subject to the winds of stupidity, cowardice and corruption.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer:- With the exception of a few characters, all copyright belongs to Blizzard.

Preamble:- Firstly, I would like to apologize as, though this is a Warcraft story, it is decidedly un-Warcraftian in its style; heroism, magic, battles etc are few and far between. I have focused on the simple towns folk of Azeroth and how they function and interact within this world. There is a lot of cowardice, apathy, stupidity and corruption. I have also expanded the world, increasing the size of towns and distances between places just to make it bigger and more realistic. This was also written with those who are unfamiliar with the Warcraft universe in mind, so forgive me if I indulge in too much detail.

**Chapter one**

The town of Lakeshire was one of humble qualities. Although it had seen it's fair share of onslaughts and attacks in the past, being nestled in the vast Redridge Mountains provided it with relative security and was one of the last bastions of charm of the human race. Over two hundred buildings, both civic and private, snaked and meandered along the staggered slopes, each construction rooted deeply into the solid red rock. Centuries of mudslides and rockfalls had hardened this province into a strong and somewhat envious community of houses, workshops, farms and taverns. Upon the arrival to Lakeshire, a traveller would first notice just how stacked the town is; home after home precariously situated up the ever-ascending land with thin, winding chalk paths coiling their way between the buildings. It is said that one has no need of a town map; simply gazing at it from afar provides you with all the layout needed.

This method of deciphering this age-old settlement also gives clues as to its history. The dwellings far up on the slope, the agricultural and artisan buildings flanking on high, the tiny farmsteads desperately ploughing an acre of hilly terrain, they were the new. These constructions, some still in the state of formation, were easily defined as being a recent addition to this slowly growing outpost. As one moves their gaze inwards however, a scene of aging and inevitable decay begin to dominate, with roofs bent from time and discoloured by a multitude of harsh elemental forces. The once white walls that supported the roofs were now displaying a dirty red pattern, broken only by whips of vines lashing themselves with ease onto any surface they can. Wooden construction towers and platforms could also be seen pointing upwards here and there amongst the town, some being used for repair, others to prevent the collapse of entire buildings. Indeed, the oldest part of Lakeshire was completely devoid of any discernable common angle; all its buildings seemingly placed in position without any care of its immediate neighbour. The people of the town have centuries of runoff, landslides and subsidence to thank for that.

One of the oldest constructions was the town hall. It sat at the base of Lakeshire like a huge, pious, brick emperor, its subjects radiating around it and up the dusty red incline of the mountains. Its spire reached up over thirty metres and its bold slate roof reflected the Redridge sun with unabashed brilliance.

Its immediate neighbour was the inn, a more popular and frequented place than the town hall, much to the chagrin of the officials and councillors. To say it was a degenerative and seedy establishment would be unfair; it indulged in family and community activities from time to time as well as catering for the odd drunken group of wayward travellers. Its aesthetic appearance was nothing of note though, and little time was spent on restoring its once brilliant walls and was extremely rare that any income would be used to clear the paths and windows of the ever-present dark green ivy. Nevertheless, tavern and town hall sat side by side, like a mismatched couple, both seemingly responsible for the brood of domiciles surrounding them.

In front of both the inn and town hall laid a well-trodden, muddy pathway. Carts, horses and boots had unwittingly spent many a year churning up its earth, providing rain water with tiny havens during the stormy seasons. A vain attempt to maintain the much-used road had been undertaken, but no town hall budget could be justified in fixing what would always be broken. If one had sense, they would avoid this muddy route, and instead opt for the stretch of wooden platform that ran adjacently to it. This vast band of decking reached over a mile in length and was home to a huge array vendors, traders, travelling salesmen, and tradespeople. Children played there often, and in the darker corners, beggars knelt for alms. It was the one place in the whole of Lakeshire that could truly be called a community hub. It was alive from sunrise to the early morning hours and the air was always filled with voices, laughter and argument. But the main reason this road of wood was here at all was to provide the people of Lakeshire with a suitable dock, for flowing at the lowest point of all that is considered Lakeshire was a subsidiary of the great Lake Everstill.

The lake itself, a gigantic basin of fresh water, sat quite a distance away from the town, with only a slender portion of its contents reaching into the floor of the vale from which Lakeshire sprang. The wide stream of water which crept and swelled at the foot of the town provided many of its people with a decent livelihood. Fishermen and woman made up the most of the population of families there, and as the number grew over the years, so contracted the fishing space, causing much dispute between the various bank-dwelling people. Despite these occasional conflicts, Lakeshire was the one of the few places in the Eastern Kingdoms that had threat-free fishing. This was of vital importance to the people of Redridge as well as the towns and cities of the Alliance, to whom much of the fish was exported.

Arcing over the stretch of water that graced the floor of the town, and linking Lakeshire to the rest of the world, was a large, dual-arched bridge and was in the final stages of repair. It had been partially destroyed some years ago in an attack from a band of orcs. The people of Lakeshire always knew what was out there in the mountains and forests, beyond the roads and their havens, and it was either denial or a strategic mental block that prevented them from being affected by such imminent threats, or worse, paranoid rumours. The Redridge citizens were not warriors or fighters. Many of them had never left town, and those that had, stuck fiercely to the roads and paths. Even the fisherman held firmly to the local waterways and never ventured beyond the bridge, past which the great lake laid with its deep, mysterious waters. As well as the threat of orcs, tales of fishpeople and mountain beasts had also permeated the culture, and was forever discussed and even fantasized by the younger folk who constantly nagged the elders for stories. Occasionally, one was lucky enough to hear from someone who knew a neighbour who swore they saw something in the trees or a face in the midnight waters. A popular pastime of the town's adolescents was to see who could venture out the furthest in to the rocky monolithic mazes and gnarled woods that made up the surrounding terrain. If one were really brave, throwing a stone into some thick, dense woods or over a large boulder, followed by shouting insults and running away was deemed highly respectable by your contempories.

However infrequent the encounters with beasts and orcs may have been, the people knew that the danger was real. Reports were occasionally heard about wandering travellers who had lost their way and were attacked, beaten, robbed or killed. Supply convoys would sometimes arrive with arrows wedged into the side of the wagons. A notice board was erected outside the town hall by Magistrate Soloman, plastered with wanted posters, demanding justice and promising rewards. Some accused the Magistrate of fear-mongering , and that if one wishes to venture off into the wilderness, they do so at their own risk. But Lakeshire's elected official was not a man of calmed conscience. He was partly driven by anxiety and partly by wanting to appear to care about the town he was tasked with administrating. Strange footprints found six miles away? Go home and lock your doors! Mysterious sounds heard from the other side of the lake? Grab your weapons and defend our town! These reactions were highly criticised by the other citizens and they felt far too much money was spent rewarding travelling adventurers and hiring mercenaries. Much to Soloman's delight, a platoon of soldiers had been dispatched from the great human city of Stormwind to guard the town whilst the bridge was under repair, yet they were under no orders to venture out into the mountains to carry out operations or executions based on hearsay or rescue irresponsible citizens. All, the same, Magistrate Soloman was happy to have these soldiers march endlessly through his streets, get violently drunk in the tavern and bully the municipal peacekeepers if it meant the town had a strong, fortified appearance.

But for all the troubles Lakeshire had, it was amongst the most desirable places to live. Many people sought retirement here, usually those who had seen years of combat and warfare. They came from all over the Eastern Kingdoms to find relative peace (no place was completely peaceful), and with them came stories of battles, magic, strange races and far off distant lands. This was how the townsfolk knew of the world in which they lived. Lakeshire had no real library and as such, they could only rely on recounted tales, however misremembered, doctored and falsified they may have been. Once all the stories and songs had dried up, however, the inquisitives no longer bothered the old people for tales and information, and left them in peace to wither away, dreaming of their youth.

So the houses and buildings of Lakeshire still needed repairing, tasks, jobs and duties continued to occupy its citizens and it was seven months since a soldier had reported seeing something conspicuous in the woods. The hot seasons were on their way and the people of Lakeshire were happy. Complacent, but happy.

* * *

><p>It was morning and the sun shone through the shifting canopy of elms with sparkles and shades in equal measures. It had risen early and burnt the rocks of the mountains a horrific blood-red to an almost blinding brilliance. Summer was approaching and all the windows in Lakeshire were wide open, as if the contents of each building were gasping for breath. A wild, potent fragrance meandered through the morning air and wound its way into the homes and domiciles of the townsfolk. The heat of the morning sun seemed to awaken the people, like lizards in a desert and the ever-present sound of songbirds coupled with the trampling of hooves and boots heralded the start of the working day. Many people delighted in such wonderful mornings and even indulged in the odd greeting as they passed each other. To walk eastward across the town meant that one could look up at the sun as it danced through the lazy leaves of the elms or gaze down at the ground as the rays illuminating plumes of dry, airborne dust.<p>

For one citizen of this idyllic haven however, the sun was a nuisance. It wasn't a gentle, golden ray of warm solitude but a rude, pointy stick. The particular window which allowed this intrusion faced east, allowing for maximum annoyance. The streams of light, after finding their way through a layer of leaves, barged into a room on the top floor of a large domicile and onto the face of Carod Osmund. His head was the only part of his body that emerged from a coarse blanket on a rough-looking wooden cot. He was dead still; the eyes barely acknowledging the morning vista. The sun hadn't actually waked him up; he had been awake for a while, but the sun was certainly not letting him sleep anymore. The window was ajar and the poorly made glass deformed the sun into all sorts of shapes. The sound from the street below was becoming unbearable for him, not in so much as the volume but that he could no longer deny that it was time to get up. A thousand thoughts of depression, despair and boredom swam round his head yet his face displayed none of this and remained inanimate.

Eventually he sighed and slowly pulled his covers down. He rose slowly, his movements exhibiting the same amount of life his face was. Had anyone seen him rise from his bed, they would have assumed he was a puppet or zombie, devoid of any human expression as he was. He sat upright and swung his legs out over the cot, his body hunched over like a decrepit old man, his face slowly morphing into a façade of disappointment and regret. He remained there for a minute or so, his hands clutching the side of the cot. He let out a sigh, then a moan, then another sigh, and stood himself up. Wobbling a bit on his tired feet, he turned his head and looked around the room. It was a tiny rented accommodation, a converted loft, to be exact, with numerous supporting beams straggling the low, angled ceiling. There were no joyous colours on the walls and no art. Only his few possessions brought any life to the place, and even they were hidden away and insignificant.

Still standing at his bedside, he rocked a little, causing the boards beneath him to squeak. Then he just stood still, his eyes locked on nothing at all, almost glaring through the cheap wooden walls in front of him, through the trees outside, through the miles of rock and through the other side of the world. The gaggle of noises from beyond his window that had been playing at a steady and constant performance suddenly lulled and he held his breath and only the distant slamming of a door seemed to stir him. And so Carod, this unenthusiastic and mournful soul, span on his heels and shuffled towards a bowl of stagnant water in the corner of the room.

Above this bowl was another window, the only other one in the room. This faced north and showed nothing but a jigsaw of olive green leaves, pale branches and dull brown rock. Carod plunged his face into the bowl. It was cold and partly woke him out of his dark reverie. A quick scrub with a bar of soap and a slice of stale bread for breakfast made him more human again, and after searching around for clothing that was vaguely presentable, he got dressed, picked up an apple from a table and passed through a narrow, flimsy door and down an internal narrow staircase.

He exited the house onto a small porch that lay round the side of the main building. The smells and sounds of the summer morning struck him instantly. It awoke in him memories of being a child and being carefree, devoid of tasks and responsibility. He wasn't sure if there was a part of the brain that was somehow modifying these recollections to make them more palatable and considered the fact that his life may have always been an annoying struggle. He thought about these spurious memories for a while and then, upon realising the time, he bent his neck to the right until it cracked then stepped off the porch on the dusty, chalk path and headed southwards.

The incline of the hill made it easier to go to work in the mornings even though the momentum made each of his footsteps slap heavily upon the hard ground. He weaved his way downwards through the town like a water droplet finding its route down a bumpy rock face. He didn't make eye-contact with anyone, never returned a greeting, barged his way through a group of school children and narrowly missed being hit by a rider on a horse. He stooped down a thin alleyway and emerged the other side at the docks. It was 8:30am and the place was already heaving with commerce and activities. He quickened his step and marched past vendors barking deals and offers into the morning air. He eventually arrived at the town hall, where he ascended up the few steps at the entrance and dived into a small side door in the lobby. After climbing a small wooden staircase, he came out onto a claustrophobic, cluttered room. Rows of bookshelves and cabinets, packed with legal tomes, ledgers and documents walled the edges, with two desks nestled amongst piles of paperwork which had no home. Carod stepped over a hedge of scrolls, slipped through a gap between two poorly positioned cabinets and seated himself at a tiny disorganised desk.

He scanned the mountain of paperwork before him and sighed. Upon hearing this muted tone of discontent, an old withered face sprang from behind a grandfather clock on the other side of the room. Carod had not noticed this presence and began to thumb lazily through the parchments with little indifference their importance. The old face continued to stare, and eventually began to move in the direction of the other empty desk, being closely followed by a skinny, bent skeleton on tired, withered legs. So light as he was, this aged creature barely made a sound on the floor boards and almost seemed to float across the room. Carod looked up suddenly at the old man, who continued to traverse through the cluttered mess and with eyes still fixed on the recent arrival, emitted either a smirk or a grimace. Eventually sitting at his desk, which had been placed directly facing Carod's, he picked up his malting quill, dunked it in a pot of ink and began scribbling away. Carod knew it was time to start work.

"Have you copied those land deeds?" the old man enquired, after fifteen minutes of silence.

"Almost. I have done Wilson, Trelene, Heddings…" said Carod

"Robinson?" the old man interjected

"Doing it now" replied Carod, frantically searching the mess for the relevant sheets.

Carod hated this job but it was all he knew how to do. His skill with ink was once thought by some to have artistic value, but was soon quashed by his peers who recommended some administrative job as this was more useful. He had described the job as "soul-crushing" on many occasions and when asked why he didn't just quit, he would simply reply "And do what?" It was this mindset that had him locked into his own cycle of misery. He had the will to escape but not motivation. He had been at this post for nearly five years and the effect was numbing. Many times he would glance over to this ancient scrivener that was perched opposite him and would see himself in years to come. The arched back, the buzzard neck, the weak, hollow eyes, the dead tree fingers. He had also noticed that from the moment the old man sat down till the time he got up, his posture would never change. It was as if his body knew of no other position and that to try something different would only break him.

The old man continued on with his work, never pausing or hesitating and the scratching of his quill sounded like a dog stuck in a constant pant. Carod eventually found the land deed he was looking for and made room on his desk to begin the process of copying. He laid out a fresh sheet of parchment and, with his quill inked, began.

* * *

><p>Midday arrived and Carod's neck and shoulders were aching. The influx of newcomers into the town had created an unbearable strain on the legal proceedings and it was not uncommon for Carod and the old man to work into the night in order to stay on top of things. He reclined in his chair slowly; the cracking of the old wood echoing what he was feeling along his spine. He flexed out his writing hand as if he was casting a spell and yawned. The old man was fast asleep, still at his desk and still in his writing position, pen and all. Carod mulled over an idea and he gently rose from his chair, moved from behind his desk and very quietly slipped through the archway that led to the staircase. After dashing across the town hall lobby, he stepped outside and breathed in the warm air.<p>

Carod was a man in his early thirties but carried himself as someone far older. His reddish-brown hair swam around his scalp in a mess and his head slunk forward, stretching his neck out from his thin shoulders. His mouth sat in a rigid horizontal line, almost lipless, but was also capable of great expression, rare that those times were. He possessed dark green eyes, which had the appearance of potentially being quite sinister yet due to his often blank façade, were merely translated as eyes of boredom. His brow too, seemed to be a feature of two moods, being both worried and angry simultaneously. The clothes that were thrown on that morning, (a dirty white shirt, a deep red velvet waistcoat, faded black trousers and way-too-big-for-him ankle high boots) hung loosely over his stooping frame. He was rather thin and instantly gave them impression of someone who had never done a day's work of physical labour in their life, which he hadn't.

He stretched his back, swung his arms about and decided to make his way down towards the bridge, kicking his legs out from under him as he went, as if riding himself of parasites. It was a much more preferable spot to the docks, hating the smell of the fish stalls as he did. Upon reaching the end of the boardwalk, he came to a sudden slope which descended into the brown, murky shores of Lake Everstill, or at least the part that offered itself to Lakeshire. After slipping slightly a few times upon the wet grass, he eventually settled on a large flat rock, one of many that doted the lesser used areas of the shore. To his left was the bridge, at which he then gazed and began to ponder over. He had only ever crossed it twelve times in his entire life but had always admired its architecture and its purpose. The side that was facing him had been completed many months ago; only the side hidden to him remained to be repaired. He could hear the tools and the shouts of the workmen above. It was midday and the bridge builders were still working, enduring the high sun in order to complete this great construction. Carod felt somewhat ashamed of his midday repose as he brought out an apple from his pocket. He looked it over, took one bite then put it back in his pocket.

"Hey there Carod!"

Carod span round on his rock and looked back up toward the town. Precariously working his way down the embankment was a rotund looking young man, sporting tightly cropped hair and an exceedingly weak moustache.

"Hey!" the approaching figure repeated

"Hello Brandt" Carod said quietly, slightly aggravated by the disturbance.

The man, Brandt, attempted to jump the last two foot of the slope but slipped on the wet, soggy earth and fell on his side. He immediately stood up, wiped the dirt from his trousers and carried on as if nothing had gone wrong. Sitting down next to Carod but on a lower piece of rock, he produced a large wedge of cheese from a sack he was carrying and immediately took a huge bite.

"Alright?" he garbled, mouth half-stuffed.

"Yes. Just getting some air"

"Had a good morning?". He rammed some more cheese into his mouth, before swallowing the present lot.

"Yes. You?"

Carod was in no talking mood and was disappointed that Brandt didn't respect that. Had Brandt bothered to take into consideration other people's right to wallow, Carod thought, he would have left him well alone. While Brandt was a friend, right now he was just another intrusion. The oafish manner at which approached the lake side, his pig like fashion of eating, all of these were the direct enemies of the tranquil inner self-loathing that Carod was currently enjoying. He just wanted to be left alone. Of course, Brandt was well aware of this and took clandestine pleasure in aggravating his pensive friend. As quickly as Brandt had come down the slope to the banks, as he had finished the cheese and was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He turned to Carod and beamed a smile. Carod forced out a reply.

"Carod."

"Brandt?"

"What are you doing this time next week?"

Carod hated this type of question more than anything. He didn't want to do anything or go anywhere, but more than that he hated of thinking up believable excuses.

"Working." he replied "Why?"

Brandt smiled again and looked around him.

"Tower of Illigar!" he whispered

"Eh?"

Brandt looked around again and moved a bit closer.

"The Tower of Illiagr!"

"The Tower of Illigar?"

"Yes!"

Carod blinked a few times, trying to make clear without opening his mouth that he had no idea what his friend was talking about.

"Well?" Brandt asked

Carod had started to wonder whether there was something funny in that cheese he was eating.

"Well what?"

"Wanna see it?" Brandt spun his body around to face Carod directly and was now perched excitedly on his rock like a child about to receive a very big present. Carod didn't know what to say. It wasn't one of Brandt's usual ideas. Still confused, Carod asked him to expand on the proposal.

"See it where?"

"Where? On the other side of the mountains! Where else?"

"But… how?"

"I can't explain that now. Suffice to say, I know someone who knows someone who can get us there. But do not tell anyone. They'd stop us if they knew we were going out there."

"But who knows how to get there?"

"Someone who works at the logging shed."

Carod, no wiser than before, sat staring at Brandt whose face was still lit with excitement at the prospect.

"Trust me" Brandt said " It's all safe. We'll be fine. It's completely safe!"

Carod slouched down on his rock. At first, he thought it would be a very bad idea, and that he would have to now convince his friend not to go either. But then something in his mind suggested that it would be, somehow, alright. He had no details, no information; he knew very little about the Tower of Illigar other than some great sorcerer lived there. He moved his head back and forth as though a marble made of pros and cons was being rolled about within. Carod took so long in mulling it over than all excitement had drained from Brandt's face.

"I really thought you'd jump at this chance." Brandt complained.

"Well hold on…" replied Carod

"You're gonna say 'no', I can tell. We need at least five people. I suggested you and told them you would come." Brandt stood up and looked down on his friend."We will be going anyway, whether you decide to come or not. I'll just find someone else."

"Can you tell me the details?"

"Argh!" bellowed Brandt "You're always thinking ahead. Live, Carod!"

Carod's brain had never worked that way. He always thought things through. He weighed the good points against the bad, he took into consideration all dangerous factors, the risks. Never could he do something without considering the ramifications and the implications, even of the simplest of tasks. His mind was a giant web of interconnecting pieces, all representing people, places, lives, death…

"I'll go." he said.

Carod was as surprised as Brandt when he said it. He wasn't even sure if it was him that uttered it. Had he just abandoned all his reasoning and logical faculties? Had he swapped meticulous thought for pure whimsy?

"Yeah, I'll go." He looked up at his portly friend whose smile had returned. Carod sat still for a second, uncertain of what he had let himself in for. Without thinking about it, he pulled his apple from his pocket and took another bite.

"I will let you know the details later, in a few days." Brandt said "OK?"

"Yeah" replied Carod who, in a slight state of shock at his answer, was now deep in a whole new reverie, one in which he was pondering the future. He was about to take another bite out of the apple when Brandt snatched it from him.

"You buy your fruit from Veisilli?"

"Yeah, why?" said Carod, looking up at Brandt. He span the apple around to reveal a light brown sludgy mush emanating from the core.

"There are things in this town that are really rotten" and with that he hurled the apple into the murky waters of Lake Everstill, where it eventually bobbed to the surface and floated away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two**

A week had passed since Carod accepted the invitation, and he had spent much of his spare time preparing for the trip. He had never ventured beyond the roads, beyond the well lit corners of Lakeshire, and during the days leading up to the journey, every dream he had was filled with images of injury and death, only for the morning to have erased those primal fears. He had begun to assemble all manner of items deemed worthy of taking. It was only until he was informed that a blanket, water, food and a weapon of some sort were all that were needed did he eventually ditch his large backpack of unnecessary supplies.

The day had finally arrived. The time at which the party was scheduled to head off was five O'clock in the morning, though Carod had already been awake for many hours before that, being unable to sleep due to a multitude of various scenarios orbiting his head. In fact, he had been a victim of his over-thinking for the whole week. Four times he had considered contacting Brandt to inform him that he was pulling out of the trip. But the part of his brain that was responsible for accepting this quest in the first place had won him back over with some abstract rhetoric that he could not comprehend. Already dressed in his hardiest of clothes, complete with tough winter boots, a small satchel around his shoulders and a fire-poker, he reclined on his crude mattress and waited for the first patch of sun to signal his departure.

Despite his cumbersome attire and the thoughts of the journey ahead, he had actually begun to fall asleep, the bed having become the most comfortable it had ever been. His eyelids closed for a second and he temporarily dropped off, still clutching his makeshift weapon, the iron poker. He awoke with a few moments later and rolled out of his bed. Looking out of his window, he adjusted his belt, double checked his provisions, then walked off towards the door.

The details of the journey had been scarce. It wasn't that it was a convert operation, prone to intelligence leaks. It was mainly due to the fact that those leading this layman's expedition had done very little planning. But Carod was prepared and armed (of sorts) nonetheless. After leaving his home, he kept his head down, in an attempt to not look suspicious or draw attention, scuffing at the tiny stones and pebbles on the ground. He eventually arrived at the north-east side of the town, where the roads and paths disintegrated into nothing more than etchings in the earth.

He approached the designated meeting place, which was something of a landmark in Lakeshire. A large, red, upright rock, a natural, monolithic signpost by the roadside that stood over the town like a silent sentinel. Carod hurried his way towards this rock, whilst simultaneously scanning the area in the early morning glow. He could see two figures standing at the base of the vertical stone. The sun was now at a height where it was able to blast its rays directly into Carod's face and his ability to identify these two shapes was hindered. It was only until he arrived in the shade of the vast upright rock could he properly see them. They were both strangers to Carod.

The two men, both older than Carod, stood next each other facing the town and with their backs resting against the flat surface of the huge stone. They had watched Carod ascend the slopes towards them with varying amounts of distain, a little upon first sight, a lot more as he got closer. The taller of the two, Pendricks, was a wooden-headed fellow, with a mouth which lay constantly open and yet very little ever came out. This gawping made him look rather aquatic and a green tunic wrapped around crude chainmail completed the appearance. His fair hair swirled around the top of his head like a thatched tornado and all in all he looked just as confused about the whole adventure as Carod did, even though he wasn't. The second man, Denis, was leaning lazily up against the rock, hand gripping firmly onto an impressive looking hilt which sat atop a sheath that hung at his hip. He had never once taken his eyes off Carod on his approach and his face was one of permanent criticism, with a snarl on his top lip which seemed to alternate sides like a wave. His brow was constantly furrowed, with two black eyebrows that started from the bridge of his nose, but faded as they reached out in opposite directions, like two plumes of thick smoke obeying two different winds. A brown leather coat adorned his torso with a dark red cape and a hood attached at his neck, scuffed workman's leggings and heavy boots.

"Are you Toby?" Denis asked, after a brief moment of awkward silence.

"Carod."

"Oh."

That was all that was said until Brandt and the fifth person, Toby, arrived five minutes later. Brandt was not in the best physical condition, and was showing signs of exhaustion due to some of the steeper gradients of Lakeshire's roads. Toby was right behind him and showed no such endurance problems. He was a close acquaintance of Carod's and Brandt's and was a happy-faced, bright-eyed man of unwarranted optimism. He was almost bleeding eagerness, unwittingly usurping Denis' leadership by continuing to walk past the meeting point and up the path towards the mountains.

"Wait, damn it!" Denis barked. Toby spun around and walked back, seemingly unaffected by the harsh tone of the command. "A quick run-down of the rules. One, we stick together. Two, we keep our eyes open. Three, should we get captured, we will not reveal any information about Lakeshire or any other Stormwind defensive strategies"

Denis was taking it far too seriously, glancing at each member as he spoke with his oily black eyes. But Carod, Brandt and Toby humoured him, and stood still, nodding at each point as if they cared.

Denis then spied Carod's weapon, and sneered. Pendricks had acquired a lumberjack's axe, Brandt a second-hand sword from a merchant in town. Denis himself was fortunate to have in his possession a rather fine looking dagger as he was determined to be the one who was the most prepared for dangerous encounters. Selling many of his private belongings, he had visited one of Lakeshires blacksmiths and purchased a dirk. Together with a mismatched sheath, he had strapped it on the side of his belt and spent many hours practicing pulling it out and stabbing the air. So when he caught a glance of a fire-poker in Carod's hands, he sneered with disgust. For Denis, the weapon one chooses reflects the seriousness that one adheres to the situation. A poker was not a suitable instrument of defense, and as such Denis concluded that Carod was the one who would get everyone killed.

"A poker?" said Denis

"It was all I could get."

Denis pulled out his blade and held it in front of him.

"This is serious. You best not get us killed". Denis' tone grew graver and he waved the pointed end of his dagger in Carod's direction to enhance his message.

"I brought this." Toby interjected, as he produced from under his shawl a magnificent, one-handed silver sword. The workmanship was immediately evident to all that it was not from this town. Its long, silk-like sides reflected the morning sun with such glory as to blind those who laid eyes on it. The markings that adorned it were wondrous and alien. It was a truly envious weapon.

"I found it in my father's workshop. Hope I don't lose it!" Toby chuckled, and slid it into his belt, not being lucky enough to have found a suitable holster for it. Denis replaced his dagger, having realised that it was no longer the superior weapon in the group, turned around and started to walk up the slope toward the mountains. There was no verbal cue, and it was a few seconds before the rest realised that the journey had begun. Pendricks ran to catch up with Denis, the two being old acquaintances, and also due to the fact that Pendricks was merely acting the faithful lackey. They both worked at the saw mill, and it was they who learned from a woodsman of this path, and why they had both taken the lead of this small squad of novice adventurers. Toby was following them close behind, relishing every step and taking in deep breaths, savouring the sharp morning air. Brandt, only having just recovered from the trek through the town, had resolved not to be the one to slow them down and was at Toby's heels with newfound vigour. And at the back was Carod.

For the first thirty minutes of the journey, Denis was on high alert. He spent much of his time approaching each tree with caution, spinning around or dropping on one knee upon hearing a distant, mysterious sound. Pendricks did his best to follow suit, flanking trees and taking cover behind bushes, albeit in a rather delayed, inelegant fashion. Toby, who was directly behind them, watched on with interest. When Denis and Pendricks took cover, Toby stood on his toes and extended his neck to see if he could identify just what it was they were being cautious about. Luckily for Brandt, the land had flattened out somewhat, and he was afforded a relatively easy stroll but he still wasn't quite ready for ducking and strafing around trees every thirty seconds. Being at the back of the line, Carod watched the rest of the group with comedic horror. The ludicrousness of it all brought home to him just how dangerous this idea could potentially be. What made it more pathetic was that they were on a relatively frequented track with Lakeshire still visible were one to turn around, which made Denis' military pantomime all the more derisible.

An hour had passed since they set off and Denis was now less active, having reduced his wild movements to an amble and was swinging a stick he had found at the foliage that hung over the sides of the path. Carod wasn't sure if Denis was now bored with the journey or if he had finally relaxed. Regardless of his reason, the group was now in a talkative mood and spirits were a little higher.

"Yeah, it was a lot darker when I came here last" announced Denis, doing his best to let the others know that he had made this journey before.

"Wow!" Toby replied. He wasn't being sarcastic but Denis took it as so and decided to ignore him.

Having plodded along at the back of the procession (Brandt due to lack of energy, Carod due to lack of enthusiasm), the two stragglers began talking, much to the annoyance of Denis, who wanted talk kept to a minimum. Their favourite topic was discussing other townsfolk, or at least the various rumours they had heard about them. This topic lasted for about twenty minutes when all of a sudden they both stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes fixed ahead of them. Denis and Pendricks had veered off the track on which they had been travelling and had disappeared into the wilderness, into the wild sprawling, tangled wood, not caring to check whether all were following. Toby, who stood dead still but remained on the path, spun around to face Brandt and Carod.

"Coming?" He asked in an undeserving jovial manner, with both hands on his hip.

Strange as it may seem, neither Brandt nor Carod had ever deviated from a road or path before. It was how one stayed alive in Redridge. Something deeply subconscious within prevented them from entering that wild maze of thorns, weeds and branches.

"Come on!" Toby exclaimed, as he bounded off to follow Denis and Pendricks.

Bradnt, still not wanting to be the one who slowed down the group, shook off his primal fears and followed. Carod, however, remained inanimate. He was waiting for that little voice in his head to rationalise everything in an abstract manner, but nothing came. At that moment, he felt thoroughly alone. He looked up at the rising sun through the wave of leaves and thought about how comfortable his bed was that morning. He thought about his job, even though he hated it. He closed his eyes and thought about his childhood. A whispered shout brought him out of his daydream and without a moment's thought, he unfroze himself from his spot and left the safety of the path for the first time in his life.

The journey had taken a darker turn, in so much as they were now entering a territory of which they had no right in being. In order to deter any misadventuring, school children were never taught survival skills for the great unknown Redridge brush. Travelling far into lands unknown was thoroughly discouraged by the authorities, if not for personal safety then for Lakeshire's civilian mortality statistics.

Due to the compacted nature of the wild, untamed woodlands, the group had quickly bundle back together in a tight pack, practically treading on each other's heels as they tried to traverse the dry bushes and tangled roots. The space through which they were now navigating had a unknown, hidden quality; you could never see more than twenty-five metres in any direction. This sudden realisation panicked the less initiated of the group, Brandt and Carod. Any means of finding a quick escape route back to the path and civilization was quickly becoming lost to them. It was no straight line they were following and thirty minutes of turning and strafing had soon disorientated them. Even the sun was of no use as the constantly shifting ball of fury disappeared from time to time behind a vast collection of dense leaves, or hid behind upshots of vast rocky pillars. They had gone as far away from home as they had ever been, not so much as distance as unfamiliarity.

Over three hours had passed since they had first turned from the road and into the hot, dry labyrinth. The journey itself wasn't that long, as the crow flies, but the terrain had thrown up a multitude of obstacles. The gentle incline up which they were travelling was littered with dead, twisted trees and thick undergrowth and these impeding objects would often force the group to detour for quite some time, lengthening the journey and increasing the disorientation. At times, gigantic slabs of rocks laid in their way, adding to the effort needed to traverse up the seemingly endless incline. Climbing the ever steepening gradient was no easy feat, and eventually required team effort, the first such collaboration in their journey. Soon, they were up against great slabs of rock, vertical and overbearing. These natural stairs became more frequent, slowing down their pace and causing great fatigue in a few members. It was apparent to all that they were climbing higher into the mountains.

Each member knew that a certain amount of physical and mental endurance was needed for this journey, but at no point had they forgotten about other fears and the dangers that lay in this terrain. From the moment they left the relative safety of Lakeshire, they had all been weary of the dangers they had always been warned about, though some were more nervous than others. Upon entering the wild and leaving the path behind, Denis had felt a lot safer. The branches, rocks and bushes provided him with a sort of shield or hiding place. They obscured the travellers for miles around, only the sound of dry leaves being trod on gave away their presence but he couldn't do anything about that. Should any real danger made itself known, they would be aided in their defense and escape by low-hanging branches, dense thickets and the odd boulder.

Carod thought otherwise. They were in an unmapped territory, and he was always dogged by the feeling that they were somehow intruding on someone else's property. He was unfamiliar with his surroundings and far away from home, trespassing on the land of things he had only heard about in stories and song. During the trek, he had shivered frequently at the thought of a thousand possible ends and demises. It was at these times he stopped, gazed around him and held firmly to his fire poker. Brandt was as jittery as Carod, and both on numerous occasions jumped at the sight of a face-like configuration of leaves or distant wooden torsos that seemed to appear between a break in the trees. Occasionally, a flock of birds would cry out far away but near enough for Brandt and Carod to spin around in all directions, weapons at the ready. On the path, they had both been relatively relaxed and even a little complacent. Now, in the hot, twisting slopes of the Redridge Mountains, they had become rotating masses of paranoia and not a moment had passed by were they hadn't regretted their decision to embark on this purely aesthetic mission.

Denis, however, was the complete opposite. He knew the way, despite a few wrong turns, and was happy to remain at the front of the group, and letting all behind view his natural leadership and bravery with jealousy, at least this is what he imagined. Swiping his blade from side to side like a jungle machete through the bushes was further action on his part to make clear his expertise, even though the twigs and branches at which he hacked were dry and thick, and his short dagger had absolutely no effect. Pendricks followed him like a dog, stepping were precisely where he stepped. He was desperately trying to exhibit the same level of confidence as Denis was, although no one could tell exactly what he actually thinking. Nobody was ever able to know what Pendricks was thinking. His fish-face, the ever gawping stretched head was hard to read and gave no sign as to his inner thoughts. It was fortunate for Denis that Pendricks was in fact as fearless as him, but whether that was through sheer control of the mind or ignorance mattered not. Pendricks was more than happy to play Lieutenant to Denis' gallant Captain.

As for Toby, he bounded along in the middle with the wondrous abandon of a child. He was neither crippled by fear, nor was he marching forward with thoughts of heroism. He was simply amused by the novelty of the situation and his new surroundings. To consider possible dangers, death or injury was just not in his nature. Toby never thought ahead. He merely floated through life like a cloud, looking down at things which he found amusing, turning away from things not so. Unlike Pendricks, Toby's face beamed out these inner feelings with unabashed obviousness, much the annoyance of both the fearful and the fearless in the group. Why is he not _experiencing_ this, they all though to themselves.

After a while, they decided to stop for a break. The sun, though obscured by the canopy above, had already made its zenith and was starting to fall. Even though it was still providing some light and had a way to go before it disappeared completely, the thought that midday had passed set Carod's teeth on edge. The sun was no longer rising, it was now leaving them. They had reached a small clearing at the base of a tall, vertical cliff, strewn with ivy and half obscured by a web of leaves higher up.

"We will stop here" Denis announced. Brandt silently let out a relieved sigh. He was beginning to suffer from the extensive climb and was regretting this journey immensely, even more so than Carod. They entered the small clearing and they all sat with their backs to the cliff face with the exception of Toby who sat facing them.

"I am starving!" proclaimed Toby as he produced a cloth of food from his hip sack. It was Dalaran Cheese, an expensive item in Redridge but at no point did it seem apparent that he was trying to flaunt this fact. He was also the first to start eating, but hadn't realised that the other members were now gazing over his shoulders, transfixed and motionless. A few metres beyond Toby's back was a collection of logs, a mass of charcoaled wood placed directly in the centre of the clearing. There was no doubt it was a camp fire, and it looked recent.

"How come you guys aren't eating? " Said Toby, still unaware of what the others had seen. "Aren't you hungry?" He took another bite of the cheese. The other four, still frozen, ignored him. It was Brandt who first spoke.

"Was that here when you came here before?"

Denis shook his head.

"Another group of humans maybe? Another group gone to see the Tower? Lumberjacks? Mercenaries?" offered Carod. He was desperately trying to transform this campfire into something he could deal with. Denis shrugged. As the self-appointed leader, he suddenly felt he had to do something. He rose and walked over to it. A thin whine of smoke, barely visible from where he sat, was eking its way into the air. He kicked the top log and it rolled away into the dry leaves. He turned around and examined the ground. He had no idea was he was looking for, signs of footprints maybe or a few items that would reveal who it was that was here and how many of them there were.

Toby spun around.

"What are you doing?" he mumbled.

Denis marched back to his place at the rock face and quickly got out his provisions. The rest followed suit with the same level of haste and panic. All had all wolfed down their food within two minutes, whilst simultaneously darting their eyes about and ignoring their bodies' cry for rest. The thought that they could be in the vicinity of an unknown enemy pressured their brains to making a move. They always had in the back of their minds the thought of potential dangers, possible attacks, fights or raids. But for some reason, it was the uncertainty and the unknown that chilled them to the bone. It was not until this moment that they all knew they were in someone else's domain. They all attempted to convince their brains that it was something innocent, a group of travellers perhaps, but they all knew they could never know for certain. The leafy floor of the clearing gave no clues and nothing had been left behind, save for the smouldering campfire.

After wolfing down their food and despite their fatigue, they collectively agreed to press on, this time with more speed and nervousness, Carod's head now spinning out of control with scenarios. Denis informed them that they were soon to enter a part of the mountain were they would be safe and that they would get there within an hour. During this section of the journey, which meant heading further east, all effort to remain quiet and secretive had been abandoned. Driven by a new found fear, the group broke through twigs and branches, kicked up a thousand dry leaves and puffed and panted so loudly as to give away their position for miles around. They had no idea if they were being followed, if they were being spied upon or if an ambush was imminent. Even Denis and Pendricks had not encountered this level of fear, despite having done this journey once before. It was as if their paranoia was hiding in these woods, waiting to pounce on them upon their return. The group's irrationality had greatly outstripped its rationality, and their fears had driven out all stable thought. Even Toby was sensing the tension and panic.

Having driven on through the wooded kingdom at great speed, and having endured many injuries in their hurry, they finally reached a great wall of red rock. It was impossible to tell just how high it reached as the trees at its base obscured its heights. They walked along it for about five hundred metres until they came across a large curtain of vines hanging down from an outcrop of rock three metres up from the ground.

"Up there!" Denis pointed. "There's where we get in. We will be safe up there."

"Where?" Brandt asked, bending his neck to try and see something.

"There!" Denis repeated angrily. "We will have to climb up these vines". The group was tired and didn't fancy having to clamber up those dirty, dusty ropes.

"Can we rest a bit?" Brandt asked. There was a time when his fear overruled his fatigue. Now, it was the other way around and with a safe haven in sight, he felt more relaxed.

"You can rest up there!" Denis said. He was getting agitated. "Please, come on"

It was the first time that anyone had ever heard him use the word 'please' and Brandt duly agreed with a slight nod. All of a sudden, Toby made a run for the vines, pulled himself up at great speed and after reaching the top, disappeared over the ledge from which the vines emanated. The rest of the group all looked up. A few seconds later, Toby's head popped out from the ledge above.

"It's easy" he exclaimed, and his head disappeared again. Pendricks went next, bit by bit lurching his gangly frame up the green tentacles and over the top. Next was Brandt. Despite endangering the future of the expedition by pulling loose a couple of vines and falling to the leafy floor twice, he eventually made his way to the top, his heavy panting clearly audible from below. Remaining on the ground was Carod and Denis. Denis believed as he was the leader, he should be last to ascend onto the ledge. Likewise, Carod felt he should be last, if only to prove that he wasn't afraid to be the last. The two men looked at each other, and didn't say a word. They had hardly said a word the entire journey and the current situation made things twice as awkward between them. Carod, not being that familiar with this kind of social conflict, sighed and eventually grabbed a handful of vines and pulled himself up with relative ease. Upon reaching the ledge, he saw a deep narrow ravine stretching out before him, a great rip in the mountain, with Brandt laying flat out at the entrance. Denis eventually joined them and the group were now ready to begin the second part of their journey through a secret passage that wound through the mountains, no doubt caused by a terrible quake centuries ago. It was this natural clandestine corridor that would lead them to the Tower.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three**

The group had now ensconced themselves within the ravine. They were inside the mountains, within the main range itself. Being on the forest floor was an unpleasant experience, if not physically, then certainly mentally. Each member now felt safe, being high up as they were and hidden from view by a thick curtain of trees and vines. Their hearts still raced but now with a confident tempo. Even their sweat poured out of them in a casual manner. They might have well have been back in Lakeshire for all the serenity in which they now basked.

The chasm before them was thin and ragged but for the most part it was more than adequate for a human to traverse. They felt that any enemy, any beast which would want to cause harm could not enter this secret corridor, being either too big or not having the physical skill to move through it. They were finally at ease. But despite the group now collectively feeling they were being cradled in the protective arms of the mountains, each member had, at the back of his mind, the knowledge that they would eventually have to leave it, and drop back down to the tangled, confusing web of the forest once their quest had been fulfilled.

Not wanting to take any risks or become victims of complacency, Denis had suggested (rather than ordered, this time) that they move away from the ledge up which they climbed, and further in to the narrow gully, for extra protection. He knew of an area where they could rest a while, free from danger and detection. And rest they did. It was the repose they had long waited for, one that was denied them in the clearing on the forest floor. The crack in the mountain through which they would have to travel, wound its crooked way for at least five miles eastward. In some places, one would have to walk sideways due to narrowness. Other places, you could walk four men abreast. Millennia of rain and wind had carved and stabbed at parts of chasm floor into a stable, flat surface, making the journey far easier than the woodland trek they had just endured. But there were also great holes which littered the route, as well as huge boulders wedged between the two sides of the ravine. Ivy and weeds had taken root in there too, but many of these impediments had been hacked away on recent excursions. These signs of sentient activity were evident in places but, despite a few traces left behind by small, rock-dwelling creatures, this corridor was utterly free of intervention.

The sun was now dipping but the light was fortunately entering the chasm and bouncing off the sharp, red walls, illuminating the dark recesses at the base. The group, now seated on rocks of moss and stony outcrops, slumped down as best they could and consciously started breathing slowly, as if examining their lungs for faults. They were far enough concealed within the mountains that any sound they made would not be heard from anything passing the ledge through which they entered.

"My feet are killing me!" said Brandt

"Mine too" said Toby, taking off his rather well-buffed leather boots. He upturned his right one, causing dust, a few small pebbles and a leaf to fall out. Denis held his collar away from his neck and started to fan himself. Although he was the more physically fit of the group, he was suffering more from the journey than anyone. It was something more than pure excursion. A great weight had been placed on his mind, having decided to take charge. It was his own fault, and he knew this. However, this brief pause in a secret path through the mountains was enough to able him to temporarily unburden his mind and relax. Just has he had placed down his gear at his side, he felt he had unloaded his responsibility and placed it on the floor next to it, if only for a short while. Pendricks on the other hand, had sat there motionless, simply staring ahead at the indented, red wall directly in front of him. There was nothing of interest on it, but Pendricks sat gazing at it all the same. It was as if he was unaware that they had stopped. Brandt, however, was taking full advantage of this break. He was now in an almost horizontal position, his rear flat on a large rock and his back stretched out behind him with his neck crooked at an angle due to the uneven wall. It was the nearest he could come to lying down and the awkwardness of his recline wasn't going to stop him, tired as he was.

Carod sat a distance away from the others, as though he knew his place in the group's social dynamics. From time to time, he would glance over at Denis, attempting to see if the discontented look, which had dominated his face since they had first met, had dispersed or been replaced with something more agreeable, but Denis' face was still an accurate picture of condemnation and mistrust, with maybe a hint of worry now thrown in.

After fifteen minutes of silent reflection and regaining their breath, Denis decided it was time to press on, much to Brandt's displeasure. He could have easily laid there for another hour.

"We need to get going, people" Denis announced. He had never used the term 'people' before when talking to the group but felt it had an authorative tone and decided to keep using it in order to remind the other members just who was in charge. He stood up with new found vigour, adorned himself with his equipment and weapon, and turned to face the remainder of the endless, dark red strip of the chasm ahead. The rest lazily rose and after a minute of scrabbling around for missing items and brushing off patches of red dust, they were standing behind Denis, waiting for the next leg of their journey to begin. Although much of the fire had gone out of their enthusiasm, they were feeling that they had to finish what they started, even Carod, who spent fourteen minutes of the break thinking of his bed.

"We still have far to go", said Denis, not bothering to turn around and face the others. "There is another clearing in the chasm on the other side of the mountains, which is very close to the tower. We can sleep there tonight. Ok?"

The others replied with lacklustre nods.

"OK?" Denis repeated.

After a unified and adequate reply was eventually forced out, Denis began walking. His mental burdens had been reattached, and his yolk of responsibility was firmly fixed back onto his shoulders. He was feeling the weight of the others behind him, as if he was the old mare and the group were the burdensome carriage which he pulled.

The base of the part of the chasm of which they were now slowly traversing was anything but level. At times, the floor rocketed up at such an incline as to force the group wedge themselves between the two sides and gradually work their way up. This drastically slowed down their process but Denis, being the only one who had made this journey before, knew they were making good time. Getting through this jagged rift was frequently hazardous and required a great deal of contortionous clambering but they all felt they could overcome these obstacles at their own pace and leisure. By now, the sun had now dropped so far into the horizon that all residual light bouncing into the crack was defunct and ineffective. Looking directly upwards, one could see nothing but dark black borders on their sight's flank with a ripped ribbon of navy blue overhead. They had all brought candles, and as it was safe to do so, each one light theirs and held it in front of them, illuminating their path and making climbing even trickier.

Despite the additional glow the candles brought, the journey had become extremely difficult due to the darkness. But still they pressed on. Denis assured them that only an hour more and they would reach the opening in the chasm he had promised them. With this thought in their minds, and with the possibility of attaining a kind of sleep in the next hour or so, they increased their pace with considerable speed.

Denis, as usual, was at the head of the group, followed by Pendricks, then Toby, then Brandt and Carod at the rear. This processional order seemed to occur naturally and it was an unspoken arrangement that all respected. They soon reached a point where the corridor had become extremely claustrophobic and imposing. As they marched on in the dimness, the space to the left and right of each man was rapidly disappearing, until the rock walls, which had followed them from the start, were beginning to touch both shoulders simultaneously. Brandt, being particularly wide in stature, had to turn sideways to get through, but even the narrow passage was determined to squeeze his gut flat. The air was deep and heavy and the footfalls of each man became solid, intimate thuds, and gradually these sounds diminished until all one could hear was one's own breath. This part of the rift carried on for about a mile, causing a slight moments distress in a few members, notably Brandt who was scared of getting stuck. However, it wasn't before long until Denis broke out of narrow gap and into a large flat area. It was a welcome sight for all, and each member began to breathe wildly and stagger about as they left the rocky squeeze. The clearing on which they were now falling out on was overlooked by the wide night sky. The moon had come out and the sun vanished completely. The last part of their journey had deprived them of the sky, and therefore knowing the time of day. It was almost an anti climax to escape that narrow black hole, only to find night had descended, waiting for them to come out.

As if choreographed, the men unattached their weapons, dropped their inventory, removed cloaks and boots, and all found a space of moss covered floor on which to collapse. Candles were not needed as the moon provided more than enough light, and a few gaps in the wall of the chasm allowed a fresh breeze to enter their mountain haven. The edges of the clearing which surrounded them were at least five metres at the highest point, and three at the lowest. Carod, whose mind had never stopped thinking of ambushes, attacks and traps looked up worriedly.

"We're safe" Denis muttered, upon seeing Carods face. "We are at least fifty metres up from the forest floor. Nothing can climb up here. Relax, ok?"

Carod nodded.

Brandt had already opened his casket of water and began furiously swallowing the contents. This added to his breathlessness, but he didn't seem to care as he followed this with a quarter of a loaf of bread. The others soon began to consume their provisions and a calm mood swept the group. They were in a strange place, a fortress of red rock, high in the mountains. Far from home, they all looked up and saw the familiar half face of the moon swoon overhead like a parent and each man was soon lulled into a sleepy state. Light clouds passed across the moon like feathers, and the continuous breeze brought with it a pleasant sharpness that only seemed to exist within these walls. Amidst these factors, Carod's mind began to forget his worries. He looked up at the passing clouds and hooked each twisted scenarios on their misty bodies and watched them float away. For the first time that day, and for the first in a long time, he had a smile on his face. He would have been content to come this far and travel back the next morning; he could take or leave the tower.

No member of the group spoke for the first twenty minutes, each one lost in their own thoughts. The silence was broken by an unusual voice. It was Pendricks. It was only until he spoke that Carod realised that he had never heard him speak during the entire journey.

"I've heard loads of stories about the wilds of Redridge. Didn't see nothing, though."

"Good!" replied Brandt, now flat out on his back, his large belly rising up and down.

"Did you want to see something then?" Denis asked. "Besides, we saw that campfire. There are things out here."

Pendricks looked down at his feet picked up a tiny rock and began turning it over in his large hands.

"Can we tell anybody that we came here?" asked Toby

"Why? You didn't say anything did you?" Replied Denis

"No. Didn't tell anyone. But it would be nice to say to people that I've seen it."

Denis sighed

"Well, I guess you can tell them when you get back. They can't do much about then. I just didn't want some soldier trying to stop before we had even begun."

"And so far so good, eh?" said Toby, carving a smile out of his tired face.

"Yeah, I guess. And only the tower is only about a minute away!"

"Really?"

Carod, who was mostly concentrating on the starry sky, spun his attention to the conversation.

"Really?" he echoed.

"Yeah. Just a few more tight squeezes and we are there."

"Where?"

"You won't see it now. It's too dark."

Carod was now fully at ease like no other time during the journey. Their target was right around the corner. It would be viewed in the morning light, admired for a bit, and then they would be on their way home. If the journey going there was easy, the return would be just as uneventful. Toby and Carod looked at each other, although Carod's face had a certain level of reserved enthusiasm. Toby, on the other hand, bared a toothy smile that reflected the moonlight savagely.

"Yeah, nearly there" Denis announced to the group, although it was mostly for himself. Silence had swamped the group again, and all began to make preparation for sleep. At least they would have if Pendricks hadn't started speaking again.

"You lot ever seen a gnoll?."

"Reridge is a big place, Pendricks" assured Denis. "No. Seen an Orc, I think."

"You think?" asked Carod. The gentle mood of the group had brought out his confidence, like a tortoise from his shell.

"Yeah. I was on my way to the logging shed. There was a sound a few metres away, from the bushes. We all looked over and my co-worker said he saw something move."

"So you didn't see it?"

"Yes, _we_ saw it."

"No, you said your friend saw something in the bushes. _You_ didn't see an orc!"

"Have you see any from behind your desk?" snapped Denis angrily.

Carod was caught off guard. He was just getting into the spirit of group banter when it slapped back in his face.

"No." he quietly mumbled.

"Well then" Denis said as he spun around to point his back at Carod. The restful mood that had been cultivated over the last half hour was now in pieces, and no one could be bothered to start again.

"I heard one story." Pendricks said.

"What?" Denis said, still in an angry mood.

"A story I heard once".

Denis paused, as if to tell him to shut up and get some sleep, but he was too tired to even muster up the energy for that.

"Gone on..."

"Well, you know Kolin Anders, the fisherman?"

"No." replied Toby, who was sitting upright and listening intently. He loved stories, no matter how contrived or inconceivable, no matter how dreadfully they were told.

"Well, he's a fisherman" continued Pendricks. He had no flare for stories but had stocked up a collection of tales, both apocryphal and ridiculous, and would unleash them on anyone who was within earshot.

"So anyway, apparently, he had gone upstream, from Lakeshire, you know, past the bridge and out into the lake, which you're not really supposed to do, but he did it anyway. So he's there, in his tiny little boat, fishing. He's there for about a day, catching all sort of fish, big and small. When all of a sudden, he hears this splash from behind. He looks around but doesn't see anything. He continues fishing but hears more splashes…"

"How far from the shore was he?" Toby asked

"I… I dunno. So he kept hearing these splashes, when all of a sudden the boat starts moving by itself!" Pendricks eyes widened as he said this as if this was the only way he could enhance the tension of his tale, lacking the necessary vocabulary as he did. Denis, who had heard this yarn before from many people, simply got on with preparing for bed, doing his best to block out the inane story that was being told.

"What was moving it?" Toby enquired, edging towards the story teller.

"Murlocks! Fishmen. His boat was going towards the banks, far away from Lakeshire! He tried to row as best he could but he couldn't fight the murlocs strength! So the boat finally arrives at the shores and there is about a thousand fishmen, all dancing and boiling water in a big pot!"

"That's enough Pendricks!" barked Denis

Pendricks glanced a shocked face at Denis.

"It's complete nonsense, that story. I've heard it too. And I've even asked around and nobody has heard of a fisherman called Anders. Someone made it up to scare people. And you believe it."

"I ain't scared" retorted Pendricks, recoiling slightly as if to fend further verbal attacks. Toby, who had ignored all of Denis' criticisms, begged Pendricks to continue.

"Did they eat him?"

"Yeah!"

"No they didn't!" interjected Denis.

"They did. But first they clubbed him over the head, they scratched his skin with shells, they rubbed sand into his eyes. They even cut little slits into his flesh and put fruits and nuts in there, seasoning like. The broke all of his bones, cut out his tongue, ears and fingers. This went on for about an hour. Then they threw him into a boiling pot and cooked him! Some say he was still alive when they ate him."

By now Pendricks was on his haunches, ready to spring with excitement. Toby, like a gullible child, sat motionless on his knees. Denis, however, was fuming. He had known Pendricks for many years but he also had to endure, what Denis felt, was his pure stupidity. It was exactly this kind of nonsense that he just couldn't bear. Upon hearing the ending, Denis was ready to blow.

"You're an idiot Pendricks! An idiot! If he was by himself, who was there to regale that story? If the murlocs, or "fishmen" as you call them, killed the only person in the boat, how did the story get back to us? Did a murloc walk into the inn and tell it around the log fire? Idiot!"

Pendricks was stunned, but he had received this kind of treatment before, although it never stopped hurting. He slumped back into a seated position and simply stared at the ground. Denis, who showed no sign of remorse, carried on with his night preparations. Carod had also felt Denis acerbic sting earlier and had ignored the entire conversation, shouting and all. The icy mood was deeply unpleasant, and Carod's state of mind had now been reverted back to his default setting. He was unhappy, unsure and unsafe. Brandt, meanwhile, was fast asleep. He had been snoozing away since his head touched the mossy ground, with deep throaty growls periodically being launched from his mouth. Denis was soon wrapped in a thin blanket and was desperately trying to leave behind the tense atmosphere he had just created by sleeping, while Pendricks and Carod, slowly unfurled their bedding and laid down. Only Toby was left upright. He had remained transfixed throughout the story but had almost completely blanked the sour mood. Upon observing the sleeping consensus, he unravelled a thick, violet blanket, rolled it out on the soft, weeded rock, and laid down, all the while thinking about amazing story he had just heard.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter four**

Morning broke and it was cold. One by one the group woke up, shivering. All except Brandt, who was still fast asleep, and snoring heavily. The nasty atmosphere from the night before was still present and the frigid air which now flew into the chasm did little to warm the men's spirits. Although Pendricks had been stung by Denis' venomous tongue the previous night, his face did nothing to advertise this on this morning. It was either a well constructed mask that we wore with conviction, or he just plain forgot about it. Carod , too, wasn't feeling comfortable within the group, and neither was Denis.

"Let's get this over with." Denis said, as he was assembling his gear. It was a sentiment that Carod agreed with. "And wake up him up!" He said, pointing at Brandt.

It wasn't before long that they were all ready. A brief but inadequate breakfast had been consumed and they were all now prepared to see tower.

"This way." said Denis, with a lack of any joy or excitement. The group immediately formed into a thin line again, in its usual order. They were to enter a similar sized rift that laid at the opposite side of the clearing. This meant more huffing and awkward breathing for Brandt, and some inconveniences for the others. As usual, Denis led the way, though he had moved on ahead quite a bit through the jagged route, leaving the second in the procession, Pendricks, to lose sight of him for a while. He shuffled along the tight corridor, with no real desire to speed up to join Denis, and was even happy to feel like he was the head of the group, seeing as there was no one visible in front of him. As the rest of the group moved along the narrow gap, Toby tapped Pendricks on the shoulder.

"Anymore stories like the one last night?"

"Eh?"

"Anymore stories? That was a good one last night."

"Well.." Pendricks was about to launch into another spurious tale, when a scream came from the chasm in front of him. The group froze for a second, then panicked. Pendricks' immediate response was scuttle back out to the clearing. Toby, ever curious, tried to push himself ahead to see what the scream was. Brandt was wedged between the narrow walls and the sudden scream sped up his breathing, and Carod sprung around at the back, looking forward, looking behind. Suddenly, a loud, frantic rustling noise was heard coming from the rift ahead. Pendricks was adamant that he was going to get out of this death trap and pushed harder against Toby. Toby, being a lot lighter than Pendricks was forced backwards, but prevented from doing so by Brandt's boulder-like torso blocking the way.

Suddenly, Denis emerged from the chasm ahead, strafing and skipping wildly down the thin, jagged gap, and eventually lunging into Pendricks, who too was trying to get out of the tight space. Carod slipped out easily, and was the first into the clearing and could only stand there and wait for the other four to come flying out of the gap. The struggle was tense, and Brandt screamed as the power of three men scrapped his bold gut against the rough wall. After what seemed like a minute of scrabbling, scrapping and screaming, the mass of panic came tumbling out of the rift. Denis immediately picked himself up and whipped out his dagger, dancing about, tensing his body for action. The other three, who were injured and confused, slowly raised themselves from the ground, dusting off the red dirt they had collected along the squeeze.

"What the hell were you doing?" yelled Brandt. He lifted up his shirt to reveal a large red mark across his belly. "What the hell, Toby?"

"I wasn't doing anything thing. It was him" Toby pointed to Pendricks, who eyes were fixed on Denis. The group's self-appointed leader was still jumping about, spinning in all directions, and so giddy with fear, he couldn't speak. His eyes, that once seemed destined to remain forever angry and cynical, were now rolling around their sockets without any anchor.

"Ner…nerl…ner!" he spat out. The men looked at each other and drew their weapons, and began mimicking Denis' actions.

"What is going on?" Brandt asked, looking back down the thin dark corridor and his gut alternately.

Denis had stopped hoping about, and had stepped backward toward the clearing wall, looking above as he did.

No one moved for about a minute. They stood silently, either waiting for whatever had scared Denis to appear or for Denis to explain what had happened. Carod, who by now just desperately wanted to go home, was the first to confront Denis.

"What happened?" he asked, face to face. Denis drew his widened eyes away from the rocky surroundings and looked at Carod.

"We aren't safe here! Gnolls. Gnolls here. Here are gnolls. We go back now"

Whatever had frightened the daylights out of Denis had also frightened away any grammatical sense.

"You said we were safe here!" Carod panicked. Suddenly, Denis made a dash for the exit chasm, tripping on a rock on the way there and falling hard on to the bumpy ground. He groaned as he clutched his side, but still attempted to crawl toward the crack. Carod looked around at the others. Brandt had taken no notice of Denis' report and was busy nursing his stomach, which was now beginning to bleed in places. Pendricks, had frozen solid, only his eyes were scanning for enemies. And Toby, the ever confident Toby, was on tiptoes, trying to peer over rocks for any signs of an attack. It was in that moment that Carod felt a sense of order in his mind. He had no idea where it came from, but all he knew was he had to sort out this chaos. He walked over the Denis who was trying to squeeze into the rift but had gotten stuck. Carod pulled him back out into the clearing and stood over his quaking body.

"I'm going into the gap there."

No one tried to deter him and Toby even offered to come along, to which Carod agreed. The others had all moved over toward the entrance to the original corridor, ready for a quick getaway, with Brandt already in there, belly prepared and protected with his blanket. They watched as Carod slipped into the other rocky gap, with Denis observing from the ground. Carod and Toby disappeared from sight and soon only a scraping sound was evidence that they were still alive.

Inside the narrow gap, Carod slowly crept forward, poker out, with Toby directly behind and at times treading on Carod's heels.

"Gimme room Toby!" Carod silently yelled. It was deadly quiet. The pair edged on, looking above, and in front of them with eagle eyes. They soon came to a large boulder that had fallen between the two walls and left a small opening at the base. Carod slowly ducked down, and looked through to the other side. He waited there, scanning the area beyond. He heard no sound, except for one or two flies. Carod felt confident enough that it was safe to move through under the boulder. With poker in hand, and down on his haunches, he shuffled under. As soon as his head reach the other side of the obstacle, he was met with a putrid odour. He wrinkled his nose and paused again. He glanced ahead. Nothing. The sound of flies were more numerous this side of the boulder but he couldn't locate them. He looked above. And there staring down at him, was a gnoll.

Carod tried to scream, but nothing came out. In his attempt to make a quick getaway, his feet slipped, causing him to land on his back with his head facing directly upward, facing the gnoll. He tried to scream again, all the while trying to pulling himself back to the other side of the boulder. It would have been a much easier task had Toby not insisted on crawling through on top of him to see what he had seen. The weight of Toby, though not much, was enough to pin Carod down. He tried to yell at the curious idiot, but again, nothing came out. He started to wriggle, like a worm, back down the chasm. Toby had managed to crane his neck around and finally saw the creature. His eyes were fixed on it; he was hypnotised. Carod had finally gotten past Toby and was trying to pull his friend back through but Toby was not cooperating.

"He's dead" Toby exclaimed. Carod hadn't heard this and grabbed him by the foot. "He's dead Carod!"

Carod stopped pulling and stood motionless. Toby looked at Carod and then back at the corpse above.

"He's dead. Don't worry!". An amused smile crept over Toby's face.

It was a while before Carod's head stopped spinning and once it had realigned with his sense, his eyes pulled focus, and he dropped to his knees, or as best he could in the tight space.

"Come see. He seems to be wedged in there." said Toby. Carod slowly crawled through the tiny gap. He knew that looking upon the creature again would resurface his original reaction but he felt compelled to put away his fears and be a man. He wriggled back through on his side, directly next to Toby and looked up. It was gruesome. The huge hulk of the body was indeed wedged between two walls, and luckily for the group, had got stuck at a point too thin for it. The beast was a terrible vision. From Carod's position, he could tell that the beast had fallen head first from above. This was evident from the fact the head was pointing directly downwards, its mouth wide open, red raw gums on show with yellow stalactite-esque teeth reaching out in all direction. A constant flow of saliva had once made it mouth wet but now it had all dried up and had caused the edges of the beast mouth to crack and pustulate. A wide, dog-like nose pointed downwards, and somehow still managing to produce a vile colourless liquid which hung down in long mucus vines. Its ragged, matted fur, probably no better when it was still breathing, was now alive with flies, darting in and out of each pocket of rotting flesh, depositing maggots and devouring sinew.

But the most striking feature were the eyes. They seemed to be staring down at Toby and Carod, even making contact. They were drying out but were still potent enough to cause fear, even in death. The dark yellow edges, seemingly lidless, with red veins that littered the whites, all producing a dark, terrifying stare. Although well and truly dead, the face was still potent. Soon, Carod, was under its spell. Neither he nor Toby had seen anything like this up close, and now they had a perfect specimen with which to study. They laid there for a while, looking up at this magnificently disgusting beast, a creature of legends and stories, but now fully accessible and magnified. They soon broke themselves free of this indulgence and decided to upright themselves and report back.

When they returned to the clearing, they found Denis still on the floor. The emergence of the two men had brought a certain level of hope back to him and he rose to his feet. Brandt, who had been in escape position all this time, freed himself of the rift and wandered over to Toby and Carod. He didn't say anything but merely contorted his body into a shape which suggested he wanted an update.

"It's dead." Carod announced

The group soon collected themselves, sheathed their weapons and wiped away any embarrassing behaviour from their minds. All except Denis, who for all his posturing throughout the journey, now felt like a fraud. The group, under Carod's assurance, began to make their way down the crack towards the rotting gnoll corpse. This time, Denis remained at the back. After much shuffling and crawling, as well as holding of noses to prevent inhalation of foul odours, they stood on the other side of the boulder and the trapped gnoll. The area beyond the festering corpse was wider than the crack in which the creature had been wedged, and it was this space that it must have been aiming for but miscalulated. Its body was twisted out of shape, and the men had trouble deciphering which arm went where. It was at least over two metres tall and would have been a formidable foe were it still alive. Its crude armour clung to its body, cracked and useless due to its situation, and several trinkets hung down from its neck and wrists. The group had no problem with looting a dead body, as vile as it was, and this they did with gusto once they got over their initial shock. Brandt had found a particularly handsome pendant around the creature's neck. He pulled it off, wiped it on his trousers and tied it around his own neck. Once everybody had finished groping around the body, they stood back and admired the beast once more.

"How do you suppose it got here?" asked Pendricks. It was a question that nobody had thought to ask. One by one they all glanced up at the top of the chasm.

"It…it must have fallen down." offered Carod. Collectively, they realised that the jagged mountain corridor in which they felt so safe, the thin winding chasm which they thought impenetrable, was in fact easily accessible by gnolls, albeit from a different route, in this case from above. They all looked at Denis. Denis looked back.

"Let's see this tower and go home." Brandt said. A feeling of urgency surged through the men and they all stood to one side, in order to let Denis take the lead. Denis, still humbled and shamed by his previous actions, turned his face away from the rest of the group. He looked up at the wedged corpse and noticed something. It was something that no one else had seen, but had reignited the fires of confidence in him, although he was low on fuel.

"Alright, but wait just a minute" he replied. Suddenly, he took a running jump at the corpse. Desperately grabbing on to the loose festering skin of the creature, he pulled himself up. The others watched in amazement and confusion. During the last half an hour, Denis had been transformed into a rattled tombola of fear and emotions, but now he was ascending a corpse in a chasm. They wondered if he had gone mad. Denis had reached what could have been the waist of the creature, and began tugging at something connected to its belt. Eventually, whatever he was wrestling with came free, and Denis dropped to the ground, panting. He stood upright with a sense of achievement on his face, walked over to Carod and held in front of him a dull, tarnished but perfectly usable short sword.

"I figured you could do with a proper weapon." he said, lifting the blade up to Carod's chest. Carod wasn't sure if this was another sarcastic remark, but after a brief scan of Denis' face, he understood that the gift was genuine.

"Thanks." said Carod as he took the gift in to his hands.

"Let's hope you don't have to use it. Ok let's see this thing." Denis quietly pushed passed the group and meekly beckoned them to follow. The chasm directly ahead was rather wide, but it eventually split into a fork, both routes also impeded with fallen, wedged boulders. According to Denis, each route led to a place where one could safely observe the famous tower from the mountain side and not be detected. He decided on the left route and slowly led the party to what they had come all this way to see. They all dropped on all fours and scrambled under a huge rock that had gotten stuck near the bottom of the rift, and one at a time, they passed under the tiny space it had left them. They immediately happened upon a tiny pocket in the rock face that opened out on to the vast Redridge forests. This natural viewing room was illuminated by the morning sun and yet crammed with flowers, weeds and ivy. It was like a tiny hidden green house in the hills, moss adorning the ceiling and floor, shoots, buds, petals and vines decorated the walls. There was a mass of hanging ivy over the entrance, and once Denis had advised that they all lied as low as possible, they all crawled towards the opening and parted they vines.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter five**

At first, they didn't know what to look for. They knew they were searching for something that was neither tree nor mountain, but their eyes just couldn't focus on anything obvious. In front of them was a continuation of the forest through which they had first travelled. The sea of trees below and in front of them stretched back across a wide valley, the other side of which was a continuation of the Redridge mountains. In was in the vast bend in the range that the tower stood, but no one had yet laid eyes on it. It was hidden deep behind the rows of thick, swaying treetops. Then, a strong breeze swept its way into the valley and a number of trees bent its upper most boughs and revealed to the weary travellers the object they had come to see.

It wasn't a perfect view, but when the wind was gracious enough to pull back the leafy curtains, they were all able to gaze upon the top most part of the tower. Brief that those glimpses may have been, the section of the tower of which they saw was something that expelled any notion of regret from their minds. For roughly half a mile away, reaching up amongst the forest of gangly elms, stood a great red roof with walls of grey stone. Directly beneath the roof, as could best be observed from that distance, appeared to be huge windows that reached all the way around the tower's pinnacle.

It had to be said that it was not a great viewing post, but any closer or another less conspicuous place would have been extremely dangerous. The fractional glances and occasional reveals were enough for the group; they had satisfied their curious needs. They would now have a story to tell grandchildren or boast out loud to tavern patrons. They were also simultaneously enjoying the feeling of being so close to something so perilous and yet utterly safe and hidden. They remained there for about fifteen minutes. At times the wind would remain still, and the tower obscured, yet the group would wait in earnest for the next blast of air to expose their prize.

Brandt had gotten bored the first, and due is stomach being rather tender, was unable to remain on his front for long. He crawled back as far as he could and then shuffled out of the small cave, sliding under the boulder as he went. Denis had waited on the other side, having seen the tower already before, as well as feeling the need to act as a guard. Pendricks had had his fill and was backing out, his face ever so slightly more human having seen the tower. Carod and Toby remained, yet neither spoke a word. It had been at least a minute since the wind last bent the branches and the tower appeared but Carod felt the need to stay for one more view. He waited there another minute, desperate for one final peak and hadn't noticed that Toby had already slipped away to join the others. He was left alone, just him, the trees and the tower, when it showed itself. He thought about the occupant and realised he had no idea as to who exactly dwelled within. Eventually, there was a strong breeze which whipped the agile tops of the trees into such an angle as to reveal more of the tower than he had seen before. The sound of a thousand leaves clattering against themselves made the moment even more impressive and more remarkable. Soon, that invisible hand of wind left the valley and the trees returned to their original formation, hiding the tower from view once again.

Carod had begun shuffling backward on his front, if rather ungracefully, when a number of sounds came from the other side of the boulder. He sighed and wondered just what his fellow adventurers were up to. As he approach the exit, in order to pass through its two foot high gap, he noticed that it was blocked by Toby. He was lying flat on his back with his head placed directly under the boulder.

"Toby, can you move please? I can't get out."

Toby didn't move. Instead, he just laid there, his face looking around at the underside of the boulder which half blocked Carod's exit.

"What are you doing?" Carod was getting frustrated. The rest of the group were safe inside the mountain side, and he was exposed in the tiny, mountainside cave, albeit, slightly hidden by various plantlife. He started to panic slightly, as well as succumbing to hostile frustration.

"Move, you idiot! I cannot get out of this cave with you lying there!" Carod was shouting as quietly as he could. He was also annoyed that the others were not intervening and getting Toby to move. Then Carod glanced at Toby's face. It seemed to be the normal face he wore, ever wide-eyed, every grinning. He then started to think there might be something wrong with him. Exhaustion perhaps. He wasn't sure.

"Brandt!"

There was no answer from the other side.

"Brandt? Guys?"

Still no reply. Had they begun the journey home and left Toby lying on the ground and Carod unable to get out? He then began to study Toby's face. It was upside down for Carod, but upon closer inspection, he started to notice something amiss. The enthusiasm which made up ninety percent of Toby was usually the direct reason for his grin, but his mouth appeared to be exhibiting something made from a different source. Carod cocked his head as best he could to gain a better view. Once the face was righted, he realised that Toby usual trademark smile was in fact a grimace. The eyes too, no longer search towers of wonder, had changed. They were moving in little jerks, whilst water ran around its edges, flowing over the sides and down his cheek. Carod froze.

"Guys?" he gasped as his voice shrunk into his throat. Again, he was denied a sentient reply. He manoeuvred his head close to the cave floor and, peering past Toby's dormant body, saw into the chamber that would begin his journey homeward. The other members where nowhere to be seen. The tiny gap that his friend's body and the cave walls offered him reduced his scope dramatically, yet no footfalls, no hushed whispers could be heard. It was then he spied something in Toby's chest. Three long shards of wood struck out from his ribcage. They were all roughly the same width and same colour. Pressing his head as hard as he could against the mossy carpet, he was determined to find out just what the alien objects were. Again, his sight was impaired in the tight space by his surrounding, but he could make out feathers, crudely stuck on each of Toby's chest sticks. He withdrew his head and moved his body away from the gap. "Arrows?" he thought to himself, "None of us has a bow!" His mind deliberated and cogitated. It span with thoughts and speculation, and for a second he forgot where he was.

Suddenly, the air was filled with a terrible squeal. This horrific cry filled the cave in which Carod was currently trapped, and yet he was unable to pinpoint its source. He spun around and peered out the open through the vines in an attempt to find who or what had made this sound. The squeal had only lasted a second, but it was enough to cause Carod's stomach to become permanently twisted with fear. Although rooted to his position like a statue, he was eventually able to force himself to take one more look under the boulder. Slowly, he lowered his tense neck, and rotated his shaking skull into position and manoeuvred his flushed face into view. All was empty on the other side, save for the sight of three vertical arrows and the rest of Toby's body. Then, in the dim light that was afforded into the crack, a large, hulking mass leaped down from above, thudding so heavily as to cause the immediate ground to react. Residual dust flew into the air, further obscuring definition.

Carod was able to see that it was most certainly bipedal, and yet it was not human. Being that its feet were the only thing on show for Carod, and once the dust had settled, he could identify two great paws, padded and torn. They smacked down and spread upon every step as it moved, causing it toes to mould themselves to the uneven floor. Its speed and motion suggested one of curiosity and investigation. There was no haste in its movements and casually traversed the inner cave. Carod was so fascinated by this new encounter that he simply remained still and continued to observe these large canine feet shuffle and thud their way around amongst the dry, red dirt. A couple of hushed grunt were then heard and Carod snapped out of his wonderment and recoiled away from the gap. He held his breath. He knew that whatever was on the other side, whatever had chased away his friends and prevented him from leaving the cliffside pocket, was far too large to pass under through the gap.

And yet, Carod remained silent. He knew not what weapons or powers this mysterious creature had. A couple of snorts, followed by a whiny, oily groan flowed effortless from the thing beyond. A cloud of dust bellowed it way into Carod's sanctuary and the sound of deep, snarled lungs got closer. A foul smell and a cacophony of metal against rock soon became evident, and yet the precise activity of this hidden creature was hard to decipher. Carod dared not to move, and remained perfectly still, only breathing cautiously through tight, quivering lungs. Sweat was pouring from his brow and down his face, and he felt an icy chill infect his chest as all feelings of warmth vacated his already diminishing body. He had no idea what the outcome would be. His brain had denied him the abilities to speculate and evaluate about his immediate future, and he was brought violently into the hear-and-now, and held prisoner, both mentally and physically. Any notion of concentration or planning was either locked firmly away in the far reaches of his mind or had been lost to him forever. Either way, Carod had been transformed in to a thoughtless, inanimate mannequin, and only passingly lifelike.

The sound from beyond the boulder ebbed and waned, as the creature investigated its surroundings. Carod gazed down at the only thing he knew could shake him out of his mortified spell. He gazed down at Toby, who still appeared to be alive. He didn't know what drove him to do this, but Carod felt compelled to touch Toby' s head. After managing to release his arm from it frozen state, he reached over and place a couple of fingers on his friend's crown. Carod didn't know why he felt he had to do this, yet the tiniest of pressure awoke something in Toby and strange sound came out of his mouth. It was neither speech nor song, but it was unmistakably human.

At first, it sounded like he was trying to form words, albeit interrupted with gurgles deep within the throat. These mangled noises continued and after a few seconds started to form a very primitive rhythm. They were distant, vague and rough but they certainty had an air of despair about them. Yet Carod was unable to understand these squawks and regretted his actions, feeling like he had woken up a stranger from foreign shores. These sounds that Toby had forced out attracted the attention of the beast. Carod could only watch as Toby's head shook from side to side, due to the fact that the rest of his body was being prodded and poked by the creature. Carod could see Toby's eyes fill with a torrent of water as they rolled around their sockets as if this was the only movement he could muster. He had stopped piping out those dry, garbled noises and replaced them with a weedy whine which was both long and uneven. At first it dipped, grew silent for a second then rose in tone and volume, transforming as it ascending into a dying eagles cry. To see his friend produce such inhuman sounds and to know that it was from a place of fear and pain sent a sharp, cold spike into Carods heart.

A man who he had known for many years was now in front of him, dying, alone and scared, and yet Carod was unable to do anything about it. A fleeting thought of bashing him on his head with a large stone crossed his mind, if not to end his misery then to stop the bone chilling tones he was emitting. Carod had never so much as shot a bow and arrow in his life could only sit there helplessly and he watched his friend endure this terrible agony. The noises he made were becoming more infrequent and yet still had a hint of dread as they faded slowly, punctuated every now and then with a rise and a grunt as he desperately tried to make himself understood. Carod could only imagine that these inhuman noises were pleas for help or a message for his father. Toby's life shied away before Carods eyes as did his voice, and with a few seconds, he was silent. And yet his face was stuck in a grimace, and Carod tried to pretend that it was a smile.

This most inner of thoughts, this simple idea of humanity brought Carod back to reality, although with an air of caution. He began to think clearly again yet he still had no clue as to how to get out of the cave. There were two exits available to him. One, a sheer drop down the cliff side. The other, impeded by the dead body of his friend and a murderous beast.

Suddenly, a spear shot it's way under the boulder, causing Carod to shuffle further back toward the large opening. The weapon wiggled it's way further into his cave, blindingly smacking from left to right, removing bits of moss from the floor in the process. Carod had no idea whether the creature was aware that he was in here but he was determined to not let it find out. Clinging tightly to the vines that draped over the large opening, he leaned himself back over the edge as far as possible and out into the open. He glanced down at the long drop and noticed that, after a while, the descent steadily turned into an incline, easing out into more level territory. If he had to escape this way, could he? There were many outcrops of hard rock, with sharp, thorny bushes dotted around. It was not be an easy route, a last resort in fact, but he felt he would eventually have to should the beast break through.

He turned his attention away from the large opening and toward the boulder at the entrance, and the long spear which was now whipping back and forth violently. The long weapon then withdrew and a few seconds later, he saw Toby's body slide a little away from him. A thought grabbed Carod and he leaped over toward the gap, kissed the tips of his fingers and applied them to his dead friends forehead, as the only familiar thing left to him at this moment was dragged away from his sight. He shot back to his proposed escape route and held firmly on to the vines. A large, fur covered limb barged its way under the gap, with the spear in its massive paws. Its reach was doubled and had more than enough stretch to locate any thing that hid within. Carod ducked as the spear swung at him. He tried to resist letting out a scream as the sharp end of the spear sliced at his left shin.

The huge arm and spear then retreated, leaving Carod to breathe a little easily and he proceeded to apply all of his weight on to the vine in order to keep his exhausted and terrified body upright. The vine snapped and he lost his balance, tipping over the edge of the opening. He grabbed as many stalks as he could, each one unable to support the weight of a fully grown man individually. Having held firmly to two vines as he fell, Carod was now swinging dangerously over a deep drop of fifty or so metres. He had once considered this an escape route but only if really necessary, and now the intrusive arm above had stopped its search, the thought of having to drop such a distance became utterly irrelevant. He desperately began to pull himself up, kicking his legs out to find suitable purchase on the rock face. When he was within distance of some more credible vines, he made a grab for them, even if it meant having to swing himself a little in order to reach them.

However, his movements was too much for the weak vines to bear and they snapped at the middle, leaving Carod with nothing but loose ropes of ivy in his hand. In this instant, he knew he was going to die. The unplanned nature of the drop meant he was facing the wrong way and was unable to view the things the mountainside had in store for him as he descended rapidly. For Carod, the fall felt like a lifetime. He had time for a couple of thoughts along the way. One was that he never got to see the great city of Stormwind. The other, curiously enough, was that he didn't regret coming on this journey.

"I had a good time" he whispered to himself he was still plunging blindly downwards. For the most part, the drop was clean. The first taste of his possible demise, however, came when his left arm struck a protruding rock. He screamed. The strike had spun him around slightly and in his fall he was able to see the great trees of Redridge's wilderness. His left thigh then began to scrape the rough, speeding surface of the mountain as the wall down which Carod fell began to level out. The friction was unbearable.

A millennia of fractured stones and wind-worn pebbles laid liberally on the surface, causing a spray of red mist as he slid down its slopes. Due to this dust storm that sprayed from his legs, he was unable to see where he was going but felt his speed drop ever so slightly. The falling sensation in his stomach was subsiding, and even in this moment of uncertainty he began to feel some optimism. But the ride was far from over and was anything but easy. The thorns and weeds were more numerous than he had realised and they lashed and bit into his limbs as he brought his arms up in front of his face for protection. He closed his eyes. In the darkness he tumbled, turned, thumped and struck.

He forced himself into a ball, each limb brought up to one another to shield his battered body. He ploughed through what felt like a thousand needles, twisting all the while, pounded by invisible forces from all sides. With eyes still firmly shut, he experienced a brief moment of weightlessness as he slid off rocks and bounced against the tangled uneven mess of harsh foliage. He soon felt his speed drop and the ground became less violent towards him, yet he dared not open his eyes. His body was buzzing from the pain; it was all encompassing and no one separate injury could be identified. The fall and subsequent descent into the lower part of the mountain had seemed to last forever and, with an amount to caution, he opened his eyes in order to establish his progress.

To his amazement, he was now lying on his side on the forest floor, parallel with the dry, fallen leaves. He had been disorientated, numbed and bruised so badly that with his eyes closed, he still felt as if he was falling. There was not a part of his body that repeatedly echo a strike or vicious contact, and the spinning feeling in both his stomach and head was robust and adamant. He plunged his hand into the dirt and grabbed at the leaves, as if to balance himself from his dizziness. The fall had produced so many unwelcome sounds, as his ribcage was repeatedly bashed against solid surfaces and forced out an involuntary groans and grunts. The accompaniment of falling shingle that sounded like rain magnified had stopped yet it was still ringing clearly in his ears, instantly making him think that a landslide from above was imminent. During his fall, he had lost all fears of capture and detection brought on by the intrusive beast, mainly due to the fact that this drop had consumed all of his faculties and left no room for anything that did not apply to his immediate situation.

Once the world had stopped spinning, and he was able to make a quick self-diagnostic from his leafy hospital bed, he raised his head as best he could and scanned the area. His neck was extremely sore, forcing him to drop it back down to earth. He rolled onto his left side, hoping this would offer him a better opportunity of getting up. In the fall, each injury was instantly forgotten, having been replace with a fresh one half a second later, and he had completely forgot about his left arm that had been thrashed against a hardy rock. It had been broken at the wrist and as he applied pressure on it getting up, the pain surged through his body, resulting in a muted yelp. He instantly rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky and the swaying trees tops. To have been in such a place an hour ago would have been magical and an adventure to remember, something to tell grandchildren. Now, however, in this forbidden place, these objects of nature simply seemed childish and redundant. They were just trees. And the tower they had come so far to observe was merely a construction. Reducing these things in his mind as he did was his way of coping with the situation. The fall had obviously shaken out of him all remaining notions of romance and wonderment, and brought him crashing down onto the cold floor of reality.

It suddenly occurred to him that it was perhaps not a good idea to stay laying on the ground in a forest unknown to him, in a land of warlocks and beasts. He tried to rise, this time, slowly getting to his knees. He wobbled back and forth as he attempted to stabilise his upper body, his torso feeling like it was attached to his legs by loose thread.

The sudden uprightness of his head brought back a storm of dizziness, yet he was determined to remain vertical. After enduring the brief surge in his head, he shuffled on his knees towards a nearby tree. It wasn't a dignified sight. He was half unconscious due to the pain and the sudden blood rush, his smashed arm had contorted into the front limb of a praying mantis and his only method of movement was snaking his way along the forest floor on the side of his thighs. The tree was some distance away, and after a three minute, gradual journey, he reached out to the pillar of ochre coloured bark and held onto its contours.

Clenching his teeth tightly, his upped himself onto his knees and then cautiously raised himself onto his feet. He attempted to straighten his back out, but that was harbouring pains that he had never experienced before, and upon unfurling his spine, he jerked liked an automaton in need of oiling. With buckets of sweat dripping off his brow, he eventually stood on two feet yet with the aid of the trunk. His legs weren't broken or even twisted yet they howled out pain which seemed to provide Carod's eyes with a constant flow of water.

Taking stock of his surroundings, everything became clear. Through the trees, some distance away, he could see the base of the tower. It was too far away for Carod be seen from its entrance or windows, but he was close enough to be considered a threat or a trespasser. He scanned the forest canopy and located the sun. It was still morning which was either good news or bad news. Good because he required light to find his way home and bad because he could easily be seen. Although he had been beaten and twisted in his descent, he was still able to deduce the direction of Lakeshire, albeit after he collected his thoughts and began to breath slowly. He made the decision to stick close to the mountain base down which he had just fallen and follow it westward. With any luck, the multitude of over-hanging rocks, vines and trees would offer him the protection he would need should he have to hide himself from any vicious beast.

Still clinging to the tree trunk like a child to its mother, he quickly checked his waist. The bag of provisions and the weapon he had acquired were missing. He looked up at the rock face down which he had fallen, hoping to spy these missing items and realised that he had drop was a lot less than he thought. He had no time to mull over such sensory curiosities and instead, scanned the ground where he landed, looking desperately for his bag of food and water, and a weapon.

Upon realising that these items were lost to him, Carod decided hat it was time to start for home. The forest offered little in the way of natural crutches, but Carod felt he could make do without one, if only by staggering from tree to tree, from rock to ground. Letting go of his mothering tree, he wobbled and put one foot out and then the other. It was a stiff, paralyzed walk and was unable to achieve the speed Carod had hoped. Any notion of moving silently through the brittle leaves was ludicrous, as was dashing quickly behind the nearest boulder to avoid detection. Yet, slowly plodding, with bent limbs and throbbing body, Carod began his journey home.

Midday had come and gone and Carod was making fair progress, at least for someone who had just fallen off the side of a small mountain. Resting every fifty or so steps, he had begun to mull over in his mind the excuses and explanation he would have to give to various angry relatives and the authorities when he got back to Lakeshire. He hoped that any information he gave did not contradict the others, assuming the rest of the team got back before he did. A search party would not be sent out for him, he knew that much, but he had hoped that his friend's body would be collected. These heavy thoughts slowed down his progress and at times he stopped, if not from exhaustion then from burdensome worries.

He collected a number of fungi and berries along the way, not knowing whether they were poisonous and despising the fact that he had to bend his entire body in order to pick them up. The first handful of berries he obtained were bitter and were spat out immediately. The second lot, plucked from a bush at chest height, were sour to an extant but far more delicious in comparison to the former. The fungi he had jammed into his pockets were for later, when he was really hungry.

He was hobbling between two trees when a sound of a stick snapped away in the distance. He bent his back to try and reduce his form (it was great difficulty in getting up from the ground so he had to make sure it was worth lying down for). He swung his bent frame around like an old, crutchless man, and looked through the trees. Shapes moving through in the distance were identified, but Carod still remain motionless. He knew there were things in these woods that he wanted to avoid but at the same time, a chance contact with other humans would be most fortuitous. Sliding himself behind the nearest tree yet still in a crooked shape, he watched the abstract bodies glide about in the distance, passing in and out of sight through the woods. The sound of rustling was floating from that direction but no other noise, not words nor shouts were available with which to identify them, yet he could tell that they were getting closer to his position. He decided not to take any risks.

Having stuck closely to the base of the mountains which had given him and the others safe passage the previous day, he was blessed with fallen boulders, crevasses, cracks and holes, all within reach. He hobbled over to a vertical wall of red rock, at the base of which was a thin sliver of darkness, sandwiched between the earth and the mountain. It was a dark, root filled hole, but it would provide him with the necessary concealment until he was able to establish whether it was friend or foe approaching. Descending to his knees, and then onto his better side, he slithered his way between the two hardy formations, raking up the weeds and leaves behind him. The gap was not as deep as he would have liked but with any luck the foliage he had gathered around him would suffice in remaining undetected.

It was in these kinds of moments that Carod took stock. For someone who had succumbed to his most primal of uncontrollable fears the last day or so, and for someone who had never had to think on his feet, he was becoming impressed with the way his instincts took over in such situations. In these moments, he abandoned all notions of dignity and forethought, and instead just acted on impulse. Not once did he think to check this small gap for snakes, and yet here he was, wedged between mountain and floor, evading an unknown force that was rapidly approaching.

Through the camouflage he had assembled around him, he locked his eyes onto the nearing shape. One by one, as though rehearsed, four large beasts made themselves known to Carod by stepping out from behind trees and standing not five metres away from him. He buried his face into the dirt beneath him, closed his eyes so as not to show his whites and remained deadly still.

They were gnolls. Dirty, giant, dog-faced sentients, and the same kind that had fired arrows into Toby and had gotten wedged between two walls of a small chasm. They were over two metres tall and their long backs rose from their canine legs and lurched over their fronts, from which hung a shaggy, volatile, toothy head. The rough fur that did its best to cover the body was brown and patchy, and huge powerful upper limbs swung at its side, carrying the crudest of weapons.

Carod dared not move for fear of being detected. He was not sure if they had seen him, but felt certain that if they had, they would have dragged him from his hiding place by now. He reduced his breathing to a tender purr, although his lungs where obeying order from his exhaustion and sense of panic. A series of low howls and grunts was bantered between the gnolls, surely a primitive form of language if ever Carod heard one. His idea of hiding his pale white face into the mud seemed at the time to be one of tactical significance, yet suddenly became inpractical as his breathing was becoming quite impaired. With the gnolls still in the vicinity, he slowly tuned his face into the groove, exposing only the back of his head to the outside. Once he resettled himself, he waited, relying on only his ears to tell when the coast was clear.

He was unsure just how long he was waiting there for but it must have been over fifteen minutes. Although he could not see them, he could hear, and at times, smell their presence. He tried to establish just what they were doing there, whether it be hunting someone or just patrolling the area. The tone of the primitive conversation did not seem to be one of anger, nor were there long strands of dialogue between them. Carod thought back to the gnoll who had killed his friend and the image of Toby's dead corpse increased his resolve to remain hidden.

Another fifteen minutes passed and Carod was getting frustrated and cramped. Not only was he having to obscure himself from the gnolls, but he was also still in extreme pain, and having to fight off the desire to shift his body or rub his multiple cuts and bruises. He was internally cursing these creatures, which in this instant was mainly for the inconvenience they were causing him rather than the attack and murder of one of his friends.

He was in the middle of constructing a string of insults when a voice rang out.

"How long do you expect to stay in there?"

It was not gnoll, he was sure of that, but he remained still for another minute or so, hoping that whoever said it was not talking to him.

"You either come out or we drag you out." The voice came. Carod's heart sank. The confidence and defiance he had so carefully placed around him upon falling out of the mountain had come off, like rotten pieces of cloth. All he had in his mind was his home, and the journey he had to undertake. At no point had he considered what would happen were he to be happened upon by bandits, warlocks, gnolls or fishmen. All of a sudden, he felt very silly in his hiding place. A great wave of fear then smothered him, forcing out all thought of ever getting home safely. His body began to shake, causing each injury to magnify. He realised he had no option but to remove himself from his gap. This he did very gradually and, with head still facing into the rock, he edged himself out of his hiding place.

He was in no condition to stand on his feet, and instead simply got to his knees and raised his head to meet his end. Facing him were three additional gnolls and a man. The man was in the centre of a semicircle of the primitive creatures, and stood defiantly with arms folded. He wore a long dark blue robe, bitten and torn at the ends, and muddied and stained in patches at the base. A simple belt of rope orbited his waist, with small bundles of cloth attached. He stared down at Carod, with deep, black eyes, situated either side of an eagle-like nose. An unkempt beard clung to his jaw and a torrent of greasy, matted hair grew wildly from his head and limped down to his shoulders, doing it best to swing in the shallow breezes of the forest. His gaze was one of intolerance, and his posture echoed this fact.

Carod, still on his knees, drew his gaze up slowly, unsure whether making eye contact was a good thing. Who was this who could stand as one amongst the gnolls? Was he to be feared, respected or begged? Carod felt contented to remain on his knees. He made no plea or asked any question but simply looked passed the stranger, and off into the distance as though his brain was doing its best to escape the reality of the situation, putting Carod into a kind of waking sleep.

The man said nothing and continued to stare at Carod. Carod did not stare back and remained in his own world. Then man then span around and walked off in the opposite direction. The gnolls, who had stood as still as chess pieces, sprung into life and lurched forward towards Carod. The grabbed him by the arm and stood him on his feet. He was still in his escapist reverie but at the back of his mind was a need to cooperate with these creatures. His body, as though working on some subconscious, primal instinct began to walk, albeit like a poorly operated puppet. The gnolls gathered around their captive and forced him to walk in the same direction of the mysterious man. In Carod's distant mind were all the simple pleasures that Lakeshire had to offer. In the real world though, things were looking decidedly more grim.

Carod had glazed over much of the journey and was shaken free from his thoughts by a sudden throw to a hard wooden floor. His body buzzed with agony. He looked behind him as a huge gnoll, with steel armour pauldrons and decorative feathers began descending a set of stairs which took him below the wooden floor on which Carod was now laying. He didn't remember coming up the wooden flights, nor did he remember the direction in which they walked after his discovery. Looking around the room, he realised he was in large cylindrical stone construction, with windows interjecting the circumference. From his position on the floor, he could see a forest of table legs. Raising himself higher, onto his backside, he noticed their surfaces where covered with all sort of bottles, jars and containers. Shelves of parchments sat boastfully next to one window, while a pile of sacks and split boxes obscured another one. Immediately in front of him sat an extremely large worktable, with all sort of tubes, potions, coloured liquid (some labelled, some not), pots, containers overflowing with mysterious objects, small blackened items, animal fur, jewellery, and open books. Above the main table, hung a huge collection of white bones. Carod was unable to determine just what it was yet he knew it was something not from this region. The floor too was just as busy as everywhere else. Rats darted to and fro, spider webs made homes on trusses and bags of dirt and mulch littered the darker regions. It was not a pleasant room but it was evident it was a frequently a busy one.

"Why were you spying on me?" A voice croaked. Turning as best he could, Carod saw the man with his back turned and busying himself at one of the windows, under which sat a low desk, cluttered with inks, herbs and bowls. He had not seen the man on his initial scan of the room, being that the man seemed to blend in effortlessly with his surroundings. Carod didn't answer the man, being instantly crippled with fear. The man turned a little, directing his right ear toward Carod as if he missed his answer through lack of volume.

"Hmm?" The man added, returning to his activities at his desk. Still nothing came out of Carod, apart from a slight whimper. It was loud enough to force the man to face Carod fully.

"Why were you spying on me?" He repeated, with a tone of rising anger. For all the impeding qualities that his fear inflicted him with, Carod managed to release a reply.

"We aren't spies" he said, in a hushed voice, desperately trying to hide his fears natural vibrato.

"I didn't say you were spies. I said, why were you spying on me?"

"I don't know, I don't know!" This was the best coherent answer he could give under such stress and was immediately angry at himself for being incorrect and vague. "We came to see the tower."

"You came to see the tower?" the man said. He looked at Carod for a few seconds then came gliding over to the floor-bound man. Kneeling down next to him, the man put on his most intimidating face, but he needn't had bothered; Carod was scared enough. Putting all his efforts into a single rhetorical gaze, the man repeated himself, but this time at a slow and rather condescending pace.

"Why were you spying on me?"

"I… I…We came to see the tower here. The tower. In Redridge. We are from Lakeshire. We just wanted to see the Tower. That's all."

It was ineloquent but Carod felt he had gotten out enough to convince this man, whoever he was, that he meant no harm. The man rose to his feet, thought to himself for a second and then walked back over to his work desk and began busying himself again. Carod, was half relieved and confused. He was expecting something horrific to happen but it didn't. The man was now carrying out some daily duty, leaving Carod to tremble wildly on the floor.

"You are from Lakeshire?" the man enquired.

Carod began fumbling around for some kind of answer as he felt silence might be unwise.

"Lakeshire. Yes, I am from Lakeshire."

"And why did you come to see this tower?"

"_This_ tower?" Carods response was automatic and he was hardly aware he uttered it. The man sighed. He turned around, and noticed than Carod was still seated awkwardly on the dirty wooden floor.

"Get up off the floor!" Carod had no idea what this meant. Was he to float above it? He then looked around and saw a milking stool nearby. Upon his realisation, he pulled himself toward it and hoisted his battered body atop. It wobbled and had no back and he instantly wished he was back on the floor.

For a while, the man didn't engage him, and Carod was free to scan the room of strange assortments and bizarre artefacts, albeit through shaking eyes. The sun was now in its evening retreat and shone through the west window, highlighting a beam of dust which stretched across the room.

"After all this time…" the man said finally. It was mainly meant for himself but Carod heard it all the same. He turned to face Carod and walked over to him. Carod made a very subtle recoiling motion.

"So what do you want with me?" asked the man, obviously in a state on irritation.

"Nothing!" Carod uttered, still not daring to look into his eyes.

"Still fear I could cause more attacks? Scared of my recent inactivity, thinking I was concocting something great and terrible to unleash on you all?" He stared at Carod, awaiting an informed reply.

"I don't know anything. We meant you no harm."

"Sent to gather information?"

"No one sent us. We just wanted to see the tower. This tower"

"For what purpose?"

"Nothing. Please, we weren't spying on you."

The man withdrew himself back a couple of steps and examined Carod.

"Either it is a clever act or you are really scared." Carod imagined a faint hint of sympathy in the statement and nodded.

"Which one did you nod to?" The man asked

"Scared" Carod said, in a rather pathetic manner. The man gave a slight smile of satisfaction.

"You are from Lakeshire and you wanted to go on an adventure, did you? Wanted to say you saw something? Wanted to have a story to tell people when you got back?"

Again, Carod detected what he thought were clues to his imminent release and subsequent journey back home, and decided to monitor each answer he gave so as not to jeopardise that chance.

"Yes. I had never seen it. I live in Lakeshire and have hardly seen any of the Redridge mountains."

"And now one of you is dead, I understand?"

Carod looked at the man in the eyes for the first time, confused by how he could have known that information but also incensed by his heartless delivery. Knowing that he could never win a battle of powers or intimidation, he immediately turned away again. The man rubbed his chin, still contemplating his captive's claims.

"You could be telling the truth. I really don't know… " The smile on the man's face suddenly dropped. "Who am I?"

Carod, thought about the answer for a second, then froze. He didn't know. He came to see the tower, not the warlock inside. Panic swelled in his head.

"Who am I?" the man repeated, but no answer came. He hovered over Carod like a hawk, eyes burning deep into his prisoner's skull. He knelt down, bringing himself level with Carod's face. Carod still didn't look at him and instead, his eyes rolled about, trying to see if he could conjure up a name from the recesses of his memory. And yet nothing came and he feared that he had never known the warlock's name and that he would soon never see home again. The man moved closer.

"You say you came to see the tower. And the great warlock who resides within is…?"

Carod said nothing. He was a statue.

"You don't know, do you?"

Carod was too static to even shake his head.

More than the thought of being spied upon, was the thought that there was someone one didn't know his name. He spat and choked on his anger. He flung out his arm and from his palm, a black ball of fire shot out and flew across the room, turning a pile of rotten sacks into smoke and dust. Carod cowered down on his milking stool, anticipating his turn.

"Leuitenant!" the man yelled. Ten seconds later, the beast that had thrown him to the floor emerged from the stairs and was soon looming over Carod. "Take him".

The gnoll held Carod by the arm, and took him down the stairs. He was not afforded the opportunity to walk on his feet and was instead dragged behind the creature like a rag doll. The stairs were old and rotten, and the way its landings, wells and flights descended into the bottom of the tower made no discernable sense. They spiralled this way and that, interspersed with platforms and balconies and it was down these steps that Carod was being taken, down into the lower regions of the tower, a place devoid of windows and home to only a handful of ill-looking candles. A vile stench of rotting food and wet fur rose upwards and the further down they went, the more the smell became unbearable. This odour was mainly due to the small band of high ranking gnolls that had been permitted to reside there and any observations to keep things clean and devoid of festering foodstuffs was completely ignored.

Once the stairs had been descended, they reached the large flat stone base of the tower. It was riddled with hay, mud, broken bottles, rotting food, rats, piss and gnolls. Three of these creatures, once free but now under the control of the man above, were seated around a small, poorly constructed stove, desperately trying to roast what puny animal they had managed to catch that morning. They spied the scrawny human the lieutenant was dragging behind him and laughed hysterically.

Carod was on the brink of falling apart, and when things couldn't get worse, he was suddenly flung across the dirty stone floor into a small incline directly under the stairs. He groaned with pain as he came to a stop, both obtaining new injuries and awakening the old ones. The large gnoll stomped over to the broken human, slapped a chain around his snapped wrist and gave a kick to his chest for his own pleasure. This unfair and unprovoked strike winded Carod deeply and he clutched his rib cage, gasping for breath.

And so Carod laid there with no idea what was to become of him. Any chance of negotiating freedom remained upstairs in the summit of the tower. The chances of dying on a dank, dirty, cold stone floor at the mercy of four reasonableness creatures was now very imminent.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter six**

Two weeks after Carod's imprisonment at the bottom of the warlocks tower, Lakeshire's aged notary exited his dusty cramped office and went outside. He rarely went out of doors during work hours, but the disappearance of his junior notary had caused him great distress, and not through concern for his well being. Work had piled up and he was forced to hire help in order to meet his deadlines. He drew some air into his tired lungs, held them for as long as he could and then released. All morning, he imagined this would do him some good, but all it did was tear a little at his seams.

He slowly ambled his way over to the bridge. It had been in a state of repair for many years, mainly due to shortages of labour, supplies and funds. Every year, the people of Lakeshire would hold a fund raiser to ensure the bridge got finished, and every year, the money raised disappeared into the pockets of the bureaucrats and local officials.

The old man stepped onto the bridge's solid surface and he walked along its length, running his hand along the parapet, identifying the old bricks from the new purely by touch. He was hardly a sentimental type, content as he was to be stuck behind a desk all day, managing mountains of legal documentation. But on this particular day, he felt the urge to cross the bridge and stare into the flowing waters below.

"So, you think you'll be ok here?" a voice came.

The old man looked up. It was Marshal Marris. A tall and slightly dandy officer from Stormwind, dressed in fine, if over-polished armour. He stood over the old man, one hand on the stone wall of the bridge and one and on his hip. The state of his uniform either seemed to suggest he was one who took great care of his attire or that he did his best to avoid any kind of combat.

"What?" said the old man. He had seen Marris about Lakeshire, but as he did with most people, he kept his distance. Marris maintained a loose grin.

"We will be leaving soon."

"Who?" The old man was getting confused.

"Us!" Marris replied."We're going. Our duty here is nearly at an end. Do you think you will cope without us?"

The old man had no opinions of military or defensive matters and didn't answer.

"Well, they aren't replacing us" Marris continued. The old man looked away, and out over the lake's estuary. The soldier was desperately trying to gauge the old man's thoughts but it was proving difficult.

Marris and his platoon were definitely leaving Lakeshire, but the one thing that concerned Marris the most was if the people of the town would miss them. He wanted uproars and protests . He dreamed of a populace that would demonstrate against the pulling of necessary troops from the area. In his imagination, he saw men, women and children running to him, begging him and his soldiers to stay and bring protection to the town. Instead, he was met with indifference and despite several attempts to get this sentiment going, the plan was lost at the first set of ears and never passed on.

Lakshire was in fact well protected, Deputy Feldon and his men made sure of that, but whilst the bridge was being constructed, Stormwind had sent out men to protect it. As it was originally brought down in a hostile attack by enemy forces, it was considered a military matter but once the bridge is completed, it when then be in civil hands, and the troops would no longer needed.

For Marris and his men, this had been an easy ride. They would have been removed from this station a lot earlier, were it not for reports of swelling ranks of orcs and rumours of Murloc war parties. As it happens, many of these reports were falsified, exaggerated or just made up by the soldiers or even Marris himself and they were dispatched to the senior officers at Stormwind, with an encouraging letter from the Magistrate Soloman begging to have the men stay on.

But for all their deception, they could not stop the inevitability of their transfer. The bridge was due to be under the care of civil hands and for Marris and his troops, they would shipped off to their next assignment.

Marris could see that this old man was a dead end, and was about to move away when a horse and rider rode boldly over the bridge in the direction of the town. The horse was a great white mare, and a top sat a rigid, proud woman. She wore a yellow robe which was finely patterned and adorned with beautiful stitch work. Greying hair gracefully adorned around her head, the rest resulting in a neat, convenient pile at the back and bright red boots were seen locked into her stirrups. She was in her mid 50s and yet her face gave off an air of an ageless wisdom. An all knowing look was permanently fixed to her brow but her mouth held a smile that was at once magnanimous and condescending. Her nose was her most striking feature, a long, slender and pointy appendage, even though it seemed more useful for digging up dirt like a shovel. Indeed, her whole posture screamed importance and power. The horses hooves even clipped with pride and haughtiness, despite the animal looking tired and worn.

After reaching the centre of the bridge, she stopped her horse and leaned over to one of the stonemasons who was busy laying the stones that would constitute the parapet.

"Where can I find Deputy Feldon?" he asked slowly, making sure the worker understood her.

"Up there, three roads past the town hall and ten houses along." Replied the stonemason.

"Thank you. You may carry on with your work." The woman strutted off on her glorious white mare. The stonemason was slightly offended and angered by the fact that a complete stranger had told him to "carry on", and he decided stand idle for five minutes just to spite her, regardless of the fact that she had moved on.

Marshal Marris had watched her approach and decided to assist.

"May I help you? I am Marshal Marris"

The woman ignored the officer and rode on. The old man chuckled to himself.

The woman finally found the Deputy's office but was disappointed to find him away. She would not inform the other peace keepers who she was or what business she had with the Deputy and so she sat on a chair outside in the street, brushing the dust from her boots and firing looks at citizens as they walked by. An hour had passed and still no sign of the Deputy. She hassled the junior officers every five minutes to go out and find him, but they had duties of their own to perform, and did their best to avoid making eye contact with her.

Eventually, the Deputy arrived, looking worse for wear. She shot up from the chair upon seeing him approach.

"Deputy Feldon?"

Dazed and awash with fatigue, the Deputy looked at the woman.

"Yes?"

"I am High Inquisitor Duchamp. I have come here to oversee the investigation of the disappearance of five of your citizens."

"I don't recall asking for assistance in this matter."

"No, you didn't. But Stormwind feels this case is in need of a higher authority and skill."

"Eh?"

"Let's just say that some information has come to light that makes this far deeper than an ordinary disappearance. But first of all I will need a place to stay." She looked at the Deputy, waiting for him to spring into action.

"Oh, well, the tavern has a number of.. "

"No, no, no, " she butted in. "I'm not staying in a tavern." Her eyes bore into the Deputy as if it were having some influence on his thought process.

"We have no hotels here."

"Where do you live?"

"Well, we only have a back room…"

"That'll do. I would like to have a bath and change out of my riding clothes before we start tomorrow".

The deputy blinked and shot a glance to one of his junior officers, who was slipping quietly back into the office. Duchamp's eyes however remained fixed on the Deputy, anticipating his immediate cooperation. She knew, as a High Inquisitor, her rank overruled that of a small town deputy. According to law, an inquisitor could demand to be housed in any private residence of anyone employed by Stormwind. It was an old law that had remained unchallenged and unamended for many years and very few inquisitors took liberty of this. But Duchamp relished in this privilege, and had never set foot inside a tavern or inn, unless for investigative purposes.

Upon noticing the Deputy's immobility, she strode over to her horse and mounted it. The deputy, realising that he had to relent to her request, slowly but dutifully lead her on away from the building and toward his home.

* * *

><p>The next morning, after Duchamp had washed and scrubbed, laid out her clothes and equipment on the humble cot provided for her, dined at their breakfast table at her hosts' expense, she joined the Deputy in a morning stroll. She assumed it was a pre-duty patrol, perusing the neighbourhoods and homesteads for signs of trouble, when in fact he just wanted some morning air, spending most of his journey with his eyes shut. The walk was relatively silent with Duchamp asking only a few standard questions about town moral, community spirit and the general fears that the people of Lakeshire had.<p>

Their route took them through the town's main roads with Feldon greeting all those he knew and offering a nod those he didn't. They had stopped for a minute, at almost at the same place Carod and the others had started on their journey two weeks ago. The spot over looked the lake and was an impressive vista, yet Deputy Feldon turned his back on it and faced the town. The town was his domain, his charge. He had no need for patrolling beyond its borders unless necessary. He was more than happy to get his hands dirty with civil disputes, thievery and assaults, regardless of how rare they were. Duchamp, however, had her eyes on the lake, the high position of the hillside offering a commanding view. Her role was something far more important than protecting a small town of humans tucked away in the mountains.

"Eight O'Clock approaches and it is time for us to begin" she said. Feldon knew what time it was, and exactly how long it would take for him to reach his station by foot from any part of the town.

"I know" he replied. He started walking, and she followed.

The previous night and even over breakfast, Duchamp had declined to discuss exactly why she was needed to take command over a relatively simple case. She was waiting for the working day to start and for the civic system to spring into action.

Their journey to the station had only lasted two minutes and forty-five seconds during which they did not converse. Once they reached the Deputy's headquarters, he led the High Inquisitor to the small office at the back of the station. It was where he completed forms and signed scrolls, when he could be bothered to do. He was not a desk sergeant, and detested the red tape he had to deal with on a daily basis. He did not have a big staff nor were they particularly clever, so this tedious activity fell to him, all the while wishing he was patrolling the red roads of the town instead of having to comprehend complex warrants and prisoner transfer notices.

They entered the tiny room and Feldon brushed the dust off the chair that sat opposite him. Duchamp looked down at the seat, brushed it a little more, then sat down. Feldon squeezed through the gap between his desk and the wall and practically fell into his chair.

"Drink?" he asked of Duchamp

"No." It was eight O'clock and time to work. "Fourteen days ago, four peoples in your jurisdiction reported a family member or a colleague missing, a day later another was reported has having gone missing. Is this correct?"

Feldon was no pedant for accuracy and wasn't exactly sure of these details, but he nodded anyway.

"Ten days ago, the father of one of the missing, contacted our offices complaining that not enough was being done on your part to locate his missing son." Feldon was taken aback by this as he was doing the best he could with the tools and people he had.

"We are doing what we can."

"Indeed. Now, I need to see all your reports and result of this investigation so far."

He gulped. Despising paperwork as much as he did, he avoided producing any reports unless necessary, preferring to lock all information in his head.

"There wasn't much to write down, to be honest." He peeped, hoping this would satisfy the Inquisitor.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Five men of our town are simply no longer here. There was no evidence of foul play or kidnapping. We have no reason to suspect that these cases are even linked."

"Three of them knew each other, I understand?"

"Yes."

"And the other two?"

"They were also acquaintances. We are not sure if the two parties are familiar with each other. It's a small town, so it could be possible."

"And you have no witnesses or sightings?"

"No."

"What have you done in the way of gathering information? Have you put out appeals?"

"Kind of."

"Kind of? What does that mean?"

"Magistrate Soloman put out warning posters for the public on every street. He assumes the disappearances are Orc related. He wants a curfew in place."

Duchamp leaned back on her chair in amazement. She had never before encountered such poor procedural police work and idiotic behaviour. Upon seeing the Inquisitor reaction, Feldon responded.

"High Inquisitor, we have no evidence anything bad has happened here. People go missing all the time. But for the most part, it's because they have left town. They are all relatively young, and youth does not sit still. We have sent notifications to Stormwind and dispatched memorandums to other deputies and officers for miles around. But as far as I am aware, it is not a crime to leave your home and not say goodbye."

Duchamp was not impressed with his reasoning, and pulled out a scroll from her satchel. She unfurled it and began to read the contents.

"'It has come to light that conspiracy and treachery may be a foot in Redridge. The Mages at Azora have reason to believe that citizens of Lakeshire are conspiring with known enemies of Stormwind and these suspicions must be confirmed.'"

Duchamp looked up from the scroll to gauge Feldon's reaction. _He_ was now unimpressed. She continued.

"On the 23rd of April, Mage Theocritus, a well respected mage and known to Stormwind, did obtain information using the Eye of Azora concerning a meeting or possibly meeting between Morganth, a known enemy of Stormwind and unidentified human, most possibly from Lakeshire. From what can be best gathered through these observations are meetings that are totally amicable and the human appears to be in no danger. Thus we can conclude that these two are in cooperation. High Inquisitor Duchamp, you are given the task of…"

She rolled up the scroll and place it back in her satchel, having felt the need to no longer continue reading the rest of the scroll, irrelevant as it was. Feldon held his hand up to his mouth, as if covering some embarrassing sore.

"You think Morganth is behind this?"

"We don't know? From what I can gather, he has been pretty dormant recently."

"He is still feared by those who still remember him but to be honest there are other forces out here that are more of a threat to us now than he is."

"But the people know to stay away from him nevertheless? That he is not to be trusted?"

"I really don't know what the people know. The most recent and immediate danger is what most concerns these folk. If something is no longer a threat to them, they forget about it."

"What kind of education are you giving these people? They have a right to know of the dangers that are out there."

"They know of the dangers but..." he lowered his voice "Soloman is a somewhat of a reactionary, and rarely a week goes by where he isn't nailing up new warning posters."

"Who is Soloman?" she asked, slightly confused.

"Our magistrate. The people here are aware of a generic danger, shall we say. They know not to go wandering off the paths. Beyond us warning them what else can we do?"

"And you are sure Morganth has not tried to infiltrate Lakeshire?"

Feldon sighed.

"No, I am not sure. But I have no reason to believe that the disappearances and Morganth are related"

"Well, this is what I have come here to investigate. Now, I have a number of theories but to be honest, without any detailed reports and evidence, I don't have much to go on at the moment."

The conversation grew silent and Feldon thought for a while.

"How did we know that there was someone in Morganths tower?"

"I told you, the Eye of Azora. It allows us to see into his tower."

"And what exactly did it see?"

"I don't know!" Duchamp was slightly offended by being the subject of questioning herself. "The images were notated and then examined by our experts at Stormwind."

She leaned forward in her chair, with expressed intention of highlighting the importance of her next statement.

"But know this Deputy. My main priority is to investigate a possible conspiracy and infiltration of enemy forces. I actually do not care about your missing people. Unless, that is, they lead me to establish the true nature of the images we received. And as deputy of this town, you are required by law to assist me in whatever way I feel fit. Understand?"

"Yes" Feldon responded, rather meekly.

"And you can start by making a full report. I shall want it this time tomorrow, complete and coherent. In the meantime, I will be investigating the homes of the missing. "

"We searched them! We found nothing"

She stood up.

"Well, hopefully, with my superior skills, I will be able to discover something that you didn't. The addresses please?"

He plunged his hand into a pile of papers behind his desk and pulled out a folder. Upon opening it, he thumbed through several pages and produced five sheets. The information was sparse and crudely written, with a coffee stain on one of them. He passed them over to Duchamp, who snatched them out of his hand, immediately turned around and started for the door.

"Wait" said Feldon "I'll send one of my officers with you."

Duchamp turned and smiled a victorious smile.

"Thank you, Deputy Feldon."

Inquisitor Duchamp spent the rest of the day poking around rooms and personal belongings. She had put on a special tabard that displayed the crest of Stormwind in bright gold colouring. This ensured that people knew that she was legitimate, but also because the threading shone in the sun and was rather dazzling. Her first stop was Toby's house. His father was once a well-respected blacksmith in the Old Town quarter in Stormwind and had built up quite a reputation over the years with many soldiers, paladins and warriors. Many of those war horses turned to politics in their old age, keeping close those who they knew and trusted. Toby's father sent word to his most senior of friends to push for a higher official to be charged with finding his son, and the old acquaintances obliged. These men and women rattled cages and stirred up the dust as much as they could, or at least as much as they could have been bothered and to little effect. It was only when the news came from Azora of a potential traitor that an inquisitor was dispatched.

Toby's father greeted Duchamp with grateful arms which she dutifully ignored. During her search of Toby's room, his father became a model citizen. Helping her over turn the bed, pull back the wardrobe from the wall, rip up the floor boards, even cutting open his garments all to no avail. He was less enthusiastic, however, when she started asking some rather invasive questions. Question of his past, of Toby's mother, their history together and medical oddities, an area she was keen to probe. She left the house after two hours, leaving Toby's father less enthusiastic than he was before.

The investigation was just as fruitless at Brandt's house. He had been left a considerable amount of money in his parents will, and was able to afford a modest house on the far west side of town. The door had been padlocked shut by the Deputy, the original lock having been broken on their initial investigation. The place was mess, which made keeping track of progress on what had been examined very difficult.

Next were Carod's lodgings. The landlady assisted in letting Duchamp in but didn't hang around. His room was relatively bare, and she noticed just how devoid it was of personal objects, of things that gave joy or aroused feelings or memories. There were no pictures on the wall, no colourful objects littering the sills and surfaces; the place was lacking a human touch. The place was highly practical and efficient though, with floor ways cleared and items neatly stacked away from view. The state of the place made Duchamp highly suspicious all the same. Someone was living here but no one _lived _here, she thought to herself. Unfortunately for Carod, this placed him top of Duchamp list of suspects, despite it being a list based on pure gut instincts.

The day ended with a visit to both Denis' house and Pendricks annex. Pendricks' mother, a war widow, had eight children, all various ages and all living in some kind of extension or side-building that ran off the original homestead. Pendricks' room was tiny for such a tall man, which made Duchamp's job a lot easier, despite his mother standing in the door way weeping uncontrollably.

Denis' mother, also a widow, was not a slave to such emotions and instead just led Duchamp down the path to where Denis' one bedroom house sat and opened the door with a spare key she had.

"He's done this before you know, like I told the deputy." The mother said, leaning up against the door post, whilst the High Inquisitor rummaged through drawers and cupboards.

"He was ten years old and his father had just been killed. He ran away. To a friend's house, mind. The little bugger wouldn't come back home. I said to him, 'You come home now or by the Light, I'll send you off to war!' I used to tell them that kids as young as seven were sent into battle. It stopped working after a while though. In the end, a simple smack around the head usually did the trick."

She babbled on for another twenty minutes, talking about her husband and the trouble she had raising a child by herself. Duchamp gleefully ignored all of it, and when she had finished her search, she stepped out of the house, thanked Denis' mother and walked away, hoping never to meet her again.

The searches had been as thorough as necessary but they yielded very little leads. Brant's house was full of rubbish, and if he had anything of sentimental value in it, it was hard to distinguish from the waste. Toby's room was immaculate with many splendorous items and gifts, most probably tokens of love from his parents. Pendricks' tiny cabin was mostly full of crude objects and cheap trinkets that he had collected over the years, all of which had nothing in common with each other and this baffled Duchamp slightly. Their only unifying factor was that they all shone, glowed and sparkled. In Duchamp's head, Pendricks was nothing but a large crow.

The search at Denis' had revealed a few things of interest. Under the bed, wedged between the mattress and the wooden frame, were several knives. Small and unassuming but most certainly sharp and dangerous if used correctly, Duchamp confiscated these as did she with the books of violent crimes she discovered on his kitchen table. The books were not academic analyses of violent psychological behaviour or essays on criminality. They were graphic tales of murderers and rogues, sensationalist stories designed to inflame and titillate. She thumbed through a few pages, took stock of the poor grammar and the slung them into her bag.

But the property that made her most uneasy was Carod's. She was disappointed that she didn't find any clues or turn up anything suspicious, but it was the way the room felt that offset her mind. The officer that had accompanied her had revealed that Carod had no parents in this town, and he had only been here for about five years. Neighbours and people who casually knew him, spoke of Carod's reluctance to speak of his past, and when he did, his parents were always referred to as "being in another town".

Her investigations had taken up most of the day and she arrived back at the station to find Feldon furiously scratching at several pieces of parchment.

"Still not done?" she asked as she floated into his office. He looked up.

"No, obviously"

"Ha! Well my investigations went well."

They were not as fruitful as she would have liked but she said that just to infuriate the Deputy and she took great pride in doing so.

"We searched those place top to bottom and found nothing." He remarked.

"Knives, and some questionable reading material?"

"Yeah, at the Foreman house. We didn't think that important."

"You didn't find weapons important?"

"They were just knives!"

"Knives are for use in kitchens, not to be stashed under beds, with holsters and gaudy looking hilts…" she plucked an example from her bag. "You didn't think this was suspicious?"

Feldon placed down his quill and sat back in his chair.

"Weapons are not illegal. I would have to arrest the entire town if that was the case."

"Normal for people who are in that line of work that require defence or protection, perhaps. But these are small and concealable, perfect for a sneak slice to the ribs, don't you think?"

Feldon looked at the knife Duchamp was waving in her hand.

"And does that have blood on it, has that been used? Is Mr Foreman now a suspect?"

"Well, he is certainly a potentially dangerous man in my books. Did you see the 'literature' he possesses? Trash novels of killing and treachery."

"This is not important High Inquisitor! How does someone's choice of literature have a bearing on your investigation? I don't understand!"

"I need to understand these people. I need to understand all of you. You have no idea what power Morganth has. He is a danger not just to you but to Stormwind."

"And I am telling you, we have not heard a peep from him for years."

"We will not let an attack happen. We will prevent anything from happening before it has even had a chance to develop. We need to be vigilant, Deputy. Stormwind is not for curing problems but for culling everything that has the potential to harm, destroy and eradicate us."

"That's a big job. We have many enemies"

"One at a time Deputy. One at a time."

"Anything else?" he asked, with a certain amount of trepidation. Duchamp's biggest discovery was one that was nothing at all, Carod's apartment. For her, this had sent alarm bells ringing in her head, but even she thought this was to abstract an idea to put it into words, so she held back announcing her suspicions.

"No, nothing else." She replied

Feldon, for the first time, noticed the fanaticism in her eyes, the swelling of pride whenever she mentioned her beloved city. He picked up the ragged, scrawled, half-finished report and passed it Duchamp. She placed the dagger back in her bag and took the papers from him.

"It's not finished, is it?"

"No, it isn't. I will finish it tomorrow." Duchamp glanced over the front page.

"Hmm, ok. Tomorrow then. I will read it all when you have finished it."

She flung the loosely bundled pages back onto his desk

"And after that?"

"We'll see what happens, ok? What is your wife cooking for dinner this evening?"

"… I have no idea."

She turned, walked out the door and left Feldon to sit alone in his cramped tiny office.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter seven**

The next few days after his initial imprisonment, Carod was left alone to brood and wallow in a small, cold recess, with only scraps of discarded food to gnaw on and consuming the few drops of water that gathered on the damp, mossy walls. His mind had completely left his body, being that it was freezing and riddled with pain, something that he could not cope with. Instead, he went in an automatic, unresponsive mode, staring into thin air and remaining motionless for hours at a time. Occasionally, his mind would return as if checking on his progress, upon which he would be brought back violently into reality, screaming and wailing, begging for release or mercy. The few lucky gnolls who were allowed to turn the tower's floor into a liveable hovel, simply responded to the noisy human's complaints by throwing things at him, further exacerbating his agony and what waste he was producing was simply left in the corner of his cell and making him sick.

It had been only three days since he was bound in chains at the bottom of a huge tower, far from home. In the rare times he was operating all functional faculties, he had dreamed of escape, maybe due to a hole in the gnoll's defences. But he had no idea where he was, his injuries were do severe and for the most part, he just didn't feel the urge to escape. He cursed himself for not mustering up the bravery needed to flee and damned the part of him that merely wanted to stay there and let destiny happen.

On the fourth day, after five hours of coping, on top of everything else, with horrendous hunger pains, he was given some insight to his captor. He first noticed rhythmic footsteps that echoed around the tower. They were angry footfalls and they never missed a beat. Reaching the bottom of the stairs and coming into Carod's view, was the warlock, who pushed passed the beasts that had congregated there and headed towards a great oak door on the opposite side on the tower floor. Upon opening the large door, he stopped, turned around to face his beasts, and without a word walked out into the sunlight.

No orders had been given, at least none Carod was aware of, yet the beasts immediately sprung into action. One of the creatures marched over to Carod, grabbed the chain and unlocked the binding, freeing his wrist. Then, with Carod in toe, they vacated the tower and made for the immediate area outside the door, in which the tall warlock stood, waiting. The gnolls pulled and pushed Carod into position next to the sorcerer, with one beast having to hold him upright.

Carod had long stopped thinking of scenarios and consequences. His body had relented to the forces that he could not control and he simply dwelled in a place of supplication. He looked up at the warlock, square in the eye, completely forgetting his personal advice to not make eye-contact with this man. But the warlock just looked back at him, and gave no indication as to his thoughts or intent.

Then the sorcerer pulled away, and walked up to a gnoll that was leaning up against a crooked tree some several meters off to his left. He held onto the crude bandolier that traversed the creatures great chest and started walking, leading the beast behind him. The two eventually stopped at a clearing, and the warlock released the gnoll and made his way back to Carod's side. The gnoll who had been positioned amongst the break in the forest floor stood still. It glanced around at its brutish comrade and chuckled a bit, but not once did it move from its spot, compelled to obey the warlocks command.

The sorcerer then reached up into the sky, his arms stretched outright. His hands, with palms upward, formed a grabbing stance as if he was attempting to pull down the heavens themselves. His face was one of pure concentration, with his dark eyes falling deeper into an ever creasing brow. The warlock's body strained and shook, and Carod, despite having his sense knocked about, could feel a strange alteration in the air. He could quite decipher what was going on, and wasn't even entirely sure the sensation was caused by something outside of his body.

He then heard a sound above him. He looked up at the loosely spun canopy that arched over the clearing in front of him. The leaves were massed enough that he could not identify what it was but then suddenly, crashing through the treetops was a storm of firey hail. They rained down with precision and speed, piercing the dry heat that hung in the forest and plunged with indifferent ferocity into the body of the unsuspecting gnoll who so dutifully stood there.

It was both dazzling and horrific. The hot wave of air that bowled towards the onlookers was tremendous, and it nearly made them forget that a creature was being roasted before their eyes. The balls of flames were thick and vile, each one a sun-like missile that burnt and cauterised anything on which they fell. En mass, the rain of fire resembled a tower of pure light, never breaking rank, constant and enduring. One could almost forget that a living creature was at the base of it. Smoke soon started rising from earth, half filled with the smell of burning leaves and roasting flesh, and it made all the observing gnolls hungry.

Each firey missile continued to drive its way downwards and into the gnoll, who at first screamed and threw himself into a ball on the ground. But the torrent of flames was so dense that the creature's physical condition was lost to all observers. The ground too was subject to this onslaught, coughing up plumes of red dirt as each hail harpooned the dry, innocent earth.

This attack lasted more than a minute, and the cries and yelps of the poor victim soon faded and were lost amongst the horrific and deafening sound as drop after drop of incendiary hail ploughed mercilessly downwards. What had been the noise of fire on metal soon became fire striking flesh, then fire falling into liquid as each drop melted the corpse into a scarlet, boiling pulp. The gnoll was dead.

The warlock dropped his arms and the deadly downpour diminished then stopped. All stood still and nothing uttered a noise. A great mass of black and red lay smoking.

Carod was stunned and immediately knew this was purely a display of power. This warlock had great strengths and abilities at his finger tips, but he also held command over these beasts. They were completely under his control and at his mercy.

The warlock turned to Carod and said "Morganth!" and marched off back his tower of solitude.

* * *

><p>The next few of days, things were a bit better for Carod. He had the opportunity to wash (albeit with a bucket of cold water) and decent food was provided for him. The fact that it was decent by gnolls standards mattered not, it was still food.<p>

They were little tastes of humanity, and made him plot a mental chart in his head. Yesterday a wash. Today, proper food. Tomorrow, freedom? As soon as this crossed his mind, he dismissed it immediately. He thought it dangerous to dwell on such hope, yet he was unable to banish all thoughts of freedom from his mind. This kind of fantasy was much more preferable to actual escape, especially in his condition, and at times he dreamed up scenarios where Morganth would come down, apologise, loosen his bonds and open the front door for him. But these were thoughts that he considered dangerous to mull over and was quick to relegate them from his mind.

One notion, however, was forever rattling around his skull, and causing him some quite discomfort. Why was he being held prisoner? He had no idea why a warlock would want a prisoner anyway. Theories from ransoms to experimental testing raised their heads, none of which brought him any comfort. And it wasn't as if he could do anything about it. He would just have to sit and wait for these things to happen.

Carod had remained imprisoned for twelve days and on the thirteenth day of his incarceration, he was removed from his hovel and brought up to Morganth. He had not been up there since the first day of his capture and now visions of flames burning his body flashed through his mind. Luckily enough, the warlock had no such intent, and instead sat Carod down a chair whilst he stood over him. It was purely a rhetorical stance, giving Morganth the high ground.

"You are not a spy?" Morganth uttered

"No."

"And you are from Lakeshire?"

"Yes"

"And you didn't know my name?"

"Its Morganth"

Morganth stood for a second then seated himself next to Carod on another chair.

"You really have not heard of me, have you?" Morganth voice was filled with concern and genuine bafflement.

"I only knew that you lived in the tower. I keep telling you."

"What stories do they tell in Lakeshire, what tales?"

"Just stories of heroes and far off places, dragons, wars, the Horde…"

"No, I mean, what stories of Redridge?"

Carod thought hard. He didn't wanted to jeopardise his current treatment or offend his host.

"Stonewatch Keep, I guess."

"Yes, tell me more!"

"It was attacked by orcs many years ago, Blackrock Orcs."

"Who was responsible for those attacks?"

Carod made a wild stab in the dark at an answer aided by deduction.

"You."

"You're guessing! You have no idea. It was me that drove them to attack the keep. It was because of me that the keep was lost. What do they teach you at school there?"

"I wasn't raised there. I was born elsewhere."

"Are there no songs sung in the tavern about me. Cautionary tales?"

"Yes, but its murlocs and orcs mostly."

"Murlocs and orcs?"

"Yes"

Morganth stood up and began pacing across the floorboard. They squeaked as he walked.

"I used to be feared!" he bellowed. "I used to have great power over the populace. And I don't just mean my magic. The mere mention of my name used drive fear into people. Those mages at Azora, they used to keep a very strict eye on me, scared of what I was planning, scared of what I was going to unleash next"

Carod made himself small on his chair, fearing unprovoked reprisals. But he could tell that Morganth was no longer a young man and that the youthful and wild furnace that burnt in this chest was now all but smouldering. Years of practicing dark magic and living a sheltered and monastic lifestyle had worn him down. And his true age was hard to deduce from his face, being that it was half covered with long shaggy greasy black hair. But his frame and his gait was one that projected old age, or at least extreme fatigue. He sat on a chair near to Carod.

"You still feared me though, even though you didn't know my name?" he asked.

"Yes! That's why we were creeping about up there, that's why…" Carod stopped talking. All of a sudden, the faces of his companions filled his head. He hadn't once given them a moment's thought since his detainment. He knew that Morganth was only interested in finding out about his reputation, yet Carod now desired to know what had become of the others, whether they had been killed or if they had managed escape the mountain unharmed.

"I was up there with four others!"

"So?"

"One died, what happened to the others?"

"How should I know? "

"They weren't captured too? They weren't killed were they?"

"Do you know what I had stolen from the Stormwind mages?" Morganth was evidently more obsessed with his own reputation than answering Carod's questions, and the poor captive relented.

"I don't know anything" said Carod, hoping this would stop all conversation. Morganth stood up again and walked over to a window.

"Ah, what do I care? I made my point years ago." Morganth indeed had made several points, and often at great cost. But the years pass and enemies come and go. He had come to the tower to practice the magic he was forbidden to learn. Yet at the same time he was desperate to display his great power and his whim. Nothing was quite as exhilarating as being able to do what you wanted and be feared whilst doing it. Soldiers, knights, warriors, mages and paladins would all come to his tower to prove their worth, and he would eviscerate them, dashing them against rock in flames or sent them running. But then the visits started to fade. Attacks became fewer and his army of gnolls were now no longer spending everyday patrolling and ambushing the woods outside the tower but sitting idly, waiting impatiently for the next fresh batch of meat to arrive. Morganth had turned away from launching attacks on citizens and areas of military value and instead concentrated on defending his territory but as his threat dropped away, so did Stormwind's interest in him. This kind of abandonment and lack of interest shown by his most direct foe was something that he outwardly approved of. Yet deep down, the loss of his name as a force to be feared somehow niggled at him.

As Morganth gazed through the window, something suddenly struck him. It was something he could only sense and was completely intangible and invisible. Someone or something was watching him, hovering over his position and starting deep into his soul. The hairs on the back of his sweaty neck stood up and he was overcome with the sense that he had just been intruded upon, invaded by an unseen force. He then turned around slowly and smiled, as if he was greeting an old but invisible and insufferable friend. Looking up into the tangled rafters of the tower, he uttered something to himself

"Hello Theocrtitus".

Carod looked up at the ceiling too trying to see what had caught the warlock's attention. All he could see was a gigantic winged creature's skeleton, swinging from thin strands of string tied to the highest beams. What he talking to the skeleton?

Morganth walked over to the young man, who despite still covered with bruises, cuts mud, and nursing a twisted arm, attempted to sit with an air of dignity. The old warlock placed a hand on Carods shoulder.

"Thank you for your information and all you have done." Morganth said, and took a few steps back. He looked different somehow, a man with a new resolve, anew aspect. Although the sensation he had just encountered was one that was utterly intrusive and unwelcome, it had nevertheless touched deeply a part of him that somehow revelled in its sudden appearance, as if he had just been blessed or giving unlimited permission. Unsure about what had just happened, Carod remained seated, and started to shake nervously, expecting his imminent demise. Then, Morganth walked away to the other side of the room, and immediately started to riffle through boxes and scrabble through shelves. He pulled a large satchel from behind a cupboard and slung it on an empty table.

After dashing over to a large wardrobe, he removed his grubby robe to reveal his puny white semi-naked body, covered with all sort of strange marks and symbols. His skeleton was desperately trying to get out through the tired and pale skin, poking out at the knees, elbows and spine, and the surface of his body was rough and calloused. He plucked a long red tunic from his stores and placed it over his head. Morganth would have resembled a new man, were it not for the head of oily matted hair that remained atop. Hanging his bag on his shoulders, he marched around his shelves, tables, cupboards and desks, picking up items and examining them. Some he placed in his satchel, others he threw across the room. He was creating a fine mess with bottles, liquids and powders adorning the floor in glorious fashion. He continued on in this behaviour for a number of minutes and at times it actually seemed that his main goal was to cause a scene of destruction rather than to try to locate and examine certain objects,

He eventually stopped his one-man tornado and, with his satchel full of items, he stood near the top of the stairs, close to where Carod was sitting. He delved into his satchel and pulled out something wrapped in a dark blue cloth. He unravelled the material to reveal a curious shard within and he held it firmly within his right hand. With his back turned to Carod, who remained completely motionless on his chair and did nothing. Morganth held the strange item out in front of him. Then, positioning his left hand over the object, he began uttering a series of strange words. Carod was unable to hear exactly what he was saying but assumed that were he in the direct vicinity, they would have still been incomprehensible.

Morganth continued to utter these words, and although Carod was unable to decipher them, he could eventually tell that some sort of incantation was being executed. Still highly confused and dubious about his captor/host, he started to scan the room, expecting towers of flame to engulf him or a vile creature to appear. As he looked around, he noticed that Morganth's rhythmic mumbling had stopped. He glanced back over to the warlock, who had craned his neck around and was staring directly at Carod with one eyebrow slightly raised.

"I forgot about you" he said, still with his back turned. Carod, who still had no idea what the old sorcerer was up to, said nothing. Morganth eventually unhooked himself from his fixed stance and made his way over to Carod, who defensively withered with each approaching step the warlock took.

"What to do?" Morganth uttered out loud when he had reached his unfortunate guest. He thought for a second, looking away and out through the grubby windows that circled his domain. A smile crept over his face and he turned his attention back to Carod. Carod shuddered from the inside out.

"Spy or not, you are still merely a speck in comparison to my vast achievements and power. It will take an hour for my control to wear off, so you best be on your guard and alert."

Carod had no idea about what Morganth was speaking, but as he spoke, Carod winced slightly at every word, but the mention of being on ones guard and staying alert sent torrents of ice marching through his solar plexus.

"Goodbye" Morganth said. And with that he returned to his place at the top of the stairs and resumed his chant, with the strange shard held firmly in his hand.

By now, mortal dread had completely entrenched Carods body. He knew Morganth had something in store for him but what exactly, he didn't know. As Morganth continued to cast his word over the shard, and as Carod did nothing but watch, the air in front of the warlock started to darken. It was independent of anything, floating freely, devoid of root or frame. This dark patch of nothing stretched outward and its side swam and swelled, like the edges of a great ocean. A violent wind spat out of the mass and created a small tornado in the room. Loose papers and parchment were cast about into the air and a million particles of dust and powder were sent spinning about the room. The centre of this creation was dark and without true form, and a strange muted howl echoed from its core.

Morganth finished his incantation, looked up at the strange, floating, black pool now circulating in front of him, and turned away, as if he had seen a million of these before and was now no longer impressed by the oddity of it. He placed the shard back into its protective cloth and returned the bundle to his satchel. Spinning around and checking the place over one more time, Morganth began patting and taping his person, confirming the existence of vital and necessary items and trinkets, mumbling to himself as he did.

Once he was satisfied that he had all he needed, he faced the direction of the hanging black rip in the air, and walked towards it. As his body made contact with the black shape, a sound like great flames engulfing a forest tore through the room as if a storm had brewed up from nowhere, and as Morganth moved further into it swirling black curtain, he began to disappear from Carod's sight. Thinking that it was merely a veil of some description, and waiting for the warlock to pass through to the other side, Carod sat patiently, expecting Morganth to have transformed into something vile and horrendous. He was taken aback, however, when the dark pool of air faded and eventually vanished, leaving behind no trace or residue, and the gushes of wind that it sent forth died down to a whisper and dissipated. What was more assounding, to Carod at least, Morganth, the strange, powerful warlock, who had lived in these mountains for many years, had completed vanished too, leaving behind a home ruined, a tower abandoned and a prisoner confused.

Not being quite sure what had just happened, Carod sat on his chair, awaiting the warlock's return. Thoughts of rouses, traps, and tricks filled his head, and he dared not move. He was then suddenly aware of the stillness of the room. A slight breeze was still tickling the dilapidated window frames, and the grunts and ramblings of the gnolls down below could still be heard, yet this warlock's domain had instantly took on the feel of utter abandonment. A sense of ruin and emptiness filled the tower and it was now no longer a home or a fortress. It had become a modern archaeological site, preserved and antiquated. And yet, Carod continued to sit still, pacing the room with his eyes, expecting an attack or surprise execution, and all the while the Morganth's last words were still causing him great discomfort. They were vague and yet at the same time disconcerting.

Carod stayed put for an hour, with only his increasingly paranoid thoughts, the wind outside the window and the echoes of wild gnolls below to keep him company. Eventually, he rose from his pedestal but moved only a few feet away from it, as though he was making sure he could leap back to the seat should the warlock return suddenly. Bit by bit, however, he ran his confidence out from his chair like a tether and began circulating the room. He wandered past the vials, tubes, vases, decanters, mortars and pestles, the groups of herbs hanging on the wall, the labelled drawers of hundreds of powders and stones, and under the huge winged skeleton that hung from the rafters. He made his way over to one part of the room to where a curtain had been stretched over a rope that ran between two walls. Behind it, was a simple bed, constituting of a thin mattress and a moth-eaten sheet. The pillow was yellow with grease, and various crumbs and morsels littered the surrounding area.

Working his way between two adjacent tables, he walked up to a mass of metal and wood in a dark recess. Upon closer inspection, he identified these objects to be weapons of all descriptions. No doubt spoils of wars and victories, Carod thought to himself. A thin layer of dust had settled upon all available surfaces and thousand generations of spiders had made their homes on every angle. Looking even closer, Carod noticed how rust and decay had made these weapons virtually unusable. The thought of taking one of these weapons and using it against his captor sprang into his mind, but the idea of fighting such a powerful sorcerer with such a poor implement seemed rather silly. He took a few steps backwards and eventually decided to return to his chair, lest Morganth made a sudden reappearance.

As he passed the top of the stairwell, a terrible din began swimming its way from the badly lit depths. As this unidentifiable racket struck his ears, he sped up, tripping on the uneven floorboards and practically leaping onto his seat. The feet shook from side to side and eventually settled. The noise that he had heard from the tower below were now somehow getting louder, but being back on his seat and doing what he had been instructed to do, he was now free to decipher the noises without fear of being accused of dissent or escape. The noises consisted of horrendous rattles and violent thuds, wild stomps and random thumps, as well as a multitude of clangs, snaps, strikes and breaks. Metal against metal was heard as was the occasional groan and hushed howl.

There was no doubt it was the gnolls' doing, but they sounded like they had never done before. The wild and barbarous nature of these beasts was never in question, yet their current behaviour was one that was evidently more terrifying and unpredictable than they had ever been. Soon, wild howls and yelps began to ring out from the tower base below, with dirty snarls and growls, as well as hollers and calls in their usual disgusting tongue. At times, these horrific sounds would tail off, only to reignite with a whole new batch of unnerving screams and cries.

Carod, meanwhile, was gripping tightly to his chair. The sounds below were distressing enough, but the last words of the warlock were now beginning to make sense in his head. Morganth had already proved that he held command over these creatures but now he had disappeared. The warlock had mentioned 'control', and that it would take an hour. Carod had no idea what it meant at the time, but the chaotic sounds from below of anarchy and mayhem was slowly beginning to contract these vague last words into a comprehensive and terrible realisation.

The thumping noises which had permeated the chaotic din from the stairs were getting louder, and Carod's world shrank into a diminutive, shrivelled spectre. His head buzzed and swam as it suddenly dawned on him just what was coming up the stairs. A couple of loud snorts and gargled gibberish heralded the appearance of two gnolls, caked in blood and dirt. They were panting loudly, drool swinging from their wet, raw tongues. Their wild eyes darted around the room, half with curiosity, half with greed. They hadn't noticed the petrified human, who was sat bolt upright, sweating profusely, and gripping tightly onto the seat of his chair with his finger tips. His breath was held and his eyelids were stuck open.

The first gnoll to enter to room started sniffing at the air in front of him; the room was constantly awash with herbs, spices and dirt, and had no general aroma. The beast stomped forward, stabbing at items on the tables with its mace as it went. The second gnoll headed off in a different direction, arching its long neck around and testing air with its nose. Something caught its attention. Its body froze with only its huge head cocking and turning, and its nostrils flexing with each sniff. The eyes scanned its immediate foreground and eventually came to rest on the small puny human perched on a little wooden chair. The two exchanged looks, one confused and trying to evaluate what it has just seen, the other utterly terrified and unable to think. The gnoll gargled something crude from his mouth, the other gnoll responded and gave a whimper. Now two pairs of eyes were concentrating on Carod.

Then something hit the human. It wasn't physical, but it was still a great shock. His mind, an internal thing so reluctant, unreliable and unresponsive, was suddenly released from all the fears that had burdened it. The weight of panic and distraught were evaporated by some previously unknown force, and in an instant, Carod, was able to control his body without hindrance. His body and mind had separated, as though he was meant to suffer and endure these terrible sensations and experience these past few days in order to come out clean the other side. He had broken free of his mental prison, he had swam clear of the tormentous maelstrom and stood victoriously atop a mountain of irrationality and fears.

That is not to say, however, that he was going to be spared a horrible end. As the gnolls moved closer with curiosity and possible intent, Carod, now free from the burden of fear but now feeling as though in a half conscious dream in which his body was just something to be controlled, dropped to the floor in beside him and rolled under a table.

At first, the two gnolls didn't move, being that they were more amused by the tiny creature than anything else. Carod scrabbled through the boxes and sacks that had been stored underneath and broke through to the other side amidst a net of cobwebs. Having reach the other side, but still in danger, he rose to his feet and made for the store of collected weapons, and began grabbing at various handles and hilts.

The first weapon he tried to extract was a large mace, although the wielding of such an instrument was impossible as it was remarkably heavy and as well as being pilled under many others. His second attempt was slightly more fruitful but would somehow be less effective. The dagger he pulled out was sharp yet devoid of reach and this was no place to start learning such close combat. He eventually yanked out, with much effort, a long sabre. Its exotic appearance was to be admired, but he no time for such aesthetics as the two creatures began to make their way slowly around the other side of the table, and essentially blocking Carod in. They made no haste, baffled as they were by this human and made no immediate assumptions as to his intent. The gap between the two tables was not particularly wide, and only one gnoll could fit down there at a time. Carod watched them, as they gradually blocked his path, snorting out their dirty language at each other. His sabre was relatively light and easy to wield, despite a lose hilt, and he made stance which felt like it would be appropriate in this kind of situation.

As the first gnoll came closer, it suddenly took Carod for all he was; a small creature trying to defend itself with a dilapidated weapon. It started coughing and snorting, evidently trying to emit a laugh. Carod held his ground and did not move. Being separated from him fear-ridden thoughts was a good thing in many respects but it soon dawned on him that the fearless body he was now manoeuvring had no escape plan. He had hoped that when the time came for it, the part of his brain that was rife with ingenuity and ideas would offer up its services. But for the time being, he was just going to have to stand his ground, sword in hand and with sweat pouring from his brow and back.

The gnoll then suddenly swung its great mace upwards at Carod. Carod lunged backwards in order to avoid a deadly blow to his jaw and landed on the floor behind him. The momentum of the beast's weapon continued sweeping skywards, offsetting its balance slightly. From the floor, Carod swung his weapon, but with no contact. He hacked at the air hoping for that the gnoll would graciously move into its orbit and get wounded. No such miracle happened and in an instant, another swing from the beast was in effect. Carod rolled onto his side and under the table under which he had previously passed. Again, the sacks and boxes impeded his escape, yet he neglected to dwell on these unfortunately placed items and instead condensed all levels of concentration of surviving. Once free of the table, he rose to his feet and scuttled over to the far side of the room. The gnolls were too close to the top of the stairs for him to make his escape that way, and instead, Carod had to make do with keeping eyes on the two blood-thirsty creatures as they slowly brought themselves closer.

He backed away from the two creatures and towards the balcony that circled the stairwell. The thoughts of having to jump over the edge and dropping the steps and landings below crossed his mind, yet without his reasoning powers he hesitated, unsure as to whether or not it was a good idea. He placed the circular balcony between himself and the gnolls, sword in front of him, legs poised ready for action. In his current state, all notions of pain and infirmity were lost to him and not for one moment did he concern himself with such matters. He simply had to stay alive, for now at least. The two gnolls then began working their way around the balcony, one side each, drawing closer to their prey. They had not bothered to act defensively, assuming Carod to be quite harmless and an effortless kill, and instead barged their way past the desks, cupboards, chest and boxes that littered the room.

Carod alternated his swords direction, swiping back and forth, ready for any attack. He had hoped his weapon, stance, motion and even a determined look he had plastered to his face would deter his attackers, but the two beast simply ignored these displays and came ever closer. Carod knew his only escape route was over the banister and on to the stairs below. His plan was to come back up the stairs and back into the room, not because he thought it was a better defensive position but just because he knew this room better than the rest of the tower.

Clutching hold of his weapon, he flung himself over the balcony onto the stairs below. He missed his desired step, catching only a small protrusion of wood on the side, and fell on to the landing below. The fall was considerable, and had brought back some of his fears and anxieties which filled his head with terrifying visions of possible outcomes. Whilst still lying on the wooden landing, he tried to shake himself free of these concerns, and hoped that a full control of his body would make a return. Yet no such arrangement was made, and Carod got to his feet and felt a surge of pain in his right calf. He collapsed back down onto the floor boards and grabbed his leg. A long splinter protruded out of his flesh and blood was pouring liberally from the wound. He cursed his decision to jump and squeezed the surrounding muscle as the pain grew.

The thumping of footfalls above had started to enter his periphery and Carod was shook out of his self-criticism and pain, and he got to his feet once more, only applying pressure on his left leg. The two gnolls were descending quickly, emitting what sounded like laughter, much to Carods annoyance. He was in pain and yet it was all highly amusing for them. He then realised that he was no longer holding his weapon, and he began looking around desperately for it, to no avail. The only option left to him was to make his way down the stairs, away from the descending beasts above. Any gnolls remaining down there in the base of the tower would be dealt with when he got there.

Half-hobbling and half-sprinting, he sped his way down the winding staircase and multiple landings. The gnolls above him gained speed too, causing the vast interlinking wooden frame to rattle, and give off a sound not dissimilar to war drums.

Eventually Carod made his way to the last rung of steps. He looked at the cold stone floor and the cove where he had been held prisoner, then quickly scanned the rest of the area. Up against one wall of the tower's base was a gnoll who was sitting upright and clutching his gut. It was dead and the great pool of blood in which it sat was testament to that. Near to where Carod had been chained, there was another corpse. This one, had obviously fallen from the stairs above and landed skull first onto the hard stone floor, snapping its neck instantly leaving its limp, lifeless body to hang over it. This strange sight of twisted bones, broken armour and clogged fur was hard to recognise and bared no resemblance to anything that had once lived.

Lurching down the last two steps and onto the ground, Carod limped his way over to the entrance, which unfortunately for him, was wide open and with a gnoll blocking all hope of passing through it. The creature was on all four limbs and crawling very slowly. Its shaggy fur was alive with geysers of red liquid that shone in the evening sun as it crawled out as best it could from the heat deficient tower and into the warm air of the mountains. Without thinking, Carod, leaped towards it, and tried to push past the great hulking torso that was passing through the portal. The trunk of the body was as tall as it was wide, and with every step it took, it seemed to slow down. It also appeared to be rather unresponsive to all stimuli as Carod tried to both squeeze past and climb over this bleeding beast but to no avail.

The two gnolls from above where still descending, though now at a much slower pace, having spied Carod attempting to traverse a dying gnoll in the doorway with no success. They both let out a shriek of laughter at the sight, and chortled with tiny clucks and snorts. Carod spun around to see two great shapes move across the stairs and landing of the poorly lit tower. He had no time to wait for the dying gnoll to shift itself out the way and it was too big for Carod to move by himself. He scanned the floor, desperately trying to find a weapon, when, in the indent in which he had been chained for so many days, lying in the dirt and rotten straw, was his sabre. He skipped over as fast as he could, clung to the irregular brick work, dropped to his knees, grabbed the weapon, forced himself back up, and then hobbled back over to the door way and the dying doorman.

He raised the sabre over the gnolls all-ready diminishing body and placed the tip over the centre, over what he hoped was its vital organs. Groans and exhausted coughs spat out of the dying creature but even now, Carod hesitated. He had never killed anything in his life, apart from the odd spider or fly. Killing in defence was one thing, but to kill merely to escape was something far beyond the realms of his moral compass. The over-thinking part of his brain had re-emerged, forsaking his own life for reason and morality. The tip of the sabre, however, had already penetrated part of the beasts back purely by Carod's shaky hands, and yet he felt no urge to plunge it in further. Instead, he used slightly submerged sword as leverage to bring himself up onto the gnoll's back. He was now standing fully on its spine, which bought the beast crashing down onto its chest. The collapse sent Carod sliding down its bloody neck and out to the other side, out in to the open. Turning around, he was able to pluck the sword from gnoll's torso, all the while, the moribund creature blasting out air from its great lungs as it desperately held on to its last breath.

With sword in hand, he ran out in to the clearing that lay before the tower. Chaos was evident here too. Discarded armour and vanquish campfires permeated their way through the trees. The distant sounds of screams, yelps and cries rattled through the dry leaves of the forest and had no discernible point of origin. Dark red patches adorned the woodland floor, with the occasional scenes of struggle still resonating in the broken earth and twisted plants.

Carod had no idea why they were fighting. He did not know what disputes these things could have. He remained clueless as to where they all were or even where he was. All that was now fixed in his head was home. Lakeshire had been firmly planted and taken root, shimmering, calling. At no point did he look back to see if he was still being pursued or check ahead to make sure no ambush was imminent. He sprinted like a broken clockwork toy, enduring each step that caused him pain and still holding on to his shoddy weapon.

He made his way into the thickest part of the forest he could see, the most dense, the most compact. After weaving his way around a number of trees, thinking this would lead his might-be pursuers off the trail, if ever there was one, he flung himself in the rough foliage and writhed deep and silent. It was with the same level of panache that he first attempted to evade capture from the gnolls but he was determined to not get caught this time. Crawling much in the same manner as the gnoll in the door way had done, he made his way westward, towards the sinking sun. The forest was alive with noise, so much so that it all seemed to mix together creating great dissonance. Carod kept his head low and eyes vigilant. It was not a dignified sight, crawling on ones belly like a snake, but he had no concept of outward appearance at this time, and despite the pain, continued his journey.

Night had fallen and Carod felt confident enough to upgrade to walking. He was still extremely cautious though, having his sight taken from him by an indifferent sun, and he interspersed every twenty or so steps with an aural reconnaissance. A hushed wind had gradually picked up adversely to the falling sun and all but blocked out the continuing din of the far away gnoll dispute. He wondered whether he was being followed, and if not whether he could now rest a bit. Exhaustion had taken a firm grip on him, yet he had not fully realised this. In fact, he had only covered half the distance he had imagined in his head, mainly due to short pitstops and an uneven, unforgiving landscape.

Gradually, his journey through the darkness transformed from one of escape to one of return, as he desperately made his way homeward through the woods. He long suspected that he was perhaps going in completely the wrong direction yet his legs wouldn't listen, driving him on as if they knew something he didn't. His pace slowed down to a crawl and his crawl became stillness. The body was finally giving up and was screaming out for rest. It had broken through the barrier of his mind and asked for repose and the mind gladly agreed. In a state of half-life, he crawled over to a large Silverleaf bush, nestled under its broad leaves and disappeared from the waking world.

He had been going in the right direction but in his current condition, it would be a few days before he reached Lakeshire.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter eight**

The High Inquisitor had spent much of her third day in Lakeshire questioning its people. Her pretext was to discover the whereabouts of the five individuals, yet both she and Deputy Feldon knew that Stormwind would never have sent such a high ranking official to conduct such an unimportant enquiry. She cornered neighbours and intimidated colleagues. Duchamp became quite a familiar sight in the town, patrolling streets and casting glances at all those she thought looked suspicious. Much of her town travels were mainly for show and for displaying her authority (rather than information gathering) as if this tactic was alone enough to bring out any rotten spies and agents from the woodwork.

Her most spectacular use of power came when on the night of her third day she entered the local tavern. The town clock had struck eleven, and the tavern, as is required by law of all public houses under the rule of Stormwind was required to cast out all patrons and lock up its doors. Anyone left behind, thought Duchamp, was up to no good.

She had waited outside the tavern some distance away, having changed her attire for something less conspicuous. Huddled under a diffused lamppost, she had watched the patrons exit the inn, all in various stages of inebriation. A couple slipped on the muddy grass, one fell over completely, but the rest walked out with dignity and began their journey bedwards, although none escaped Duchamp's suspicious gaze. Once the last trickle of customers left, she stood up from her post, picking up from the ground a long, well-carved wooden staff as she did.

Her footsteps made no warning as to her approach. Her long dark cloak, that had concealed her during her vigil, flowed behind her and covered up almost all of her torso. The effect was one of levitation, a free, floating spirit. She entered the main doors of the inn and walked down the long foyer and into the main bar area. She was immediately hit by the smell of ales, beers, wines and pipe smoke. The stench was unbearable to her. It reminded her of the lower classes and the despicable things they no doubt got up to in such places. She brought the hem of her cloak up to her nose to shield the initial smell. Only her eyes were on display and they spoke out all her thoughts. She was disgusted by all inns and taverns, and declared it the worst part of her job when investigating. Long roads, rain, mud and foul creatures all made sense to her, yet the tavern was a place that brought out the putrid and indulgent side in otherwise good people.

"We're closed madam!" the barkeep yelled out from the other side of the room.

"I want no drink" she coughed back through a dispersing cloud of smoke that was orbiting the upper half of the tavern.

"Well, we are closing now. You can come back tomorrow."

"This won't take long"

"What won't take long?"

Duchamp did not answer and instead descended the couple of the steps that took her from the foyer and into the main tavern. A large fire crackled away to the left of her with two slightly drunk musicians flicking peanuts into the flames, both trying to beat the other in some improvised game. The barkeep, who had been busy with sweeping up broken glass behind the bar, was now watching Duchamp with interest. Across the room from the fireplace were the foot of some stairs which led up into darkness, and into the rented rooms the tavern let out from time to time. In the darkest corner, however, a shape sat snoring, half covered by an old brown jacket.

"Who's up there?" she asked the barkeep as she approached the bar.

"Up where?" enquired the keep.

"In your rooms?"

"No one. We've been quite quiet recently 'cause of.."

"And who are these people?" she swept her finger around the few people that remained in the pub.

"Those are some musicians and I don't know who that is in the corner. I haven't been able to wake him up. I throw him out…"

"Thank you barman. Carry on"

The two musicians who had turned around to see who was launching the questions, returned to their game, and the barkeep resumed the sweeping.

Duchamp walked over to the corner where this mysterious shape was sleeping. It was half hanging off its chair but still managing to draw in full breaths into decent lungs. The air in this corner of the room was thick with tobacco and the smell of yeast and with hand still holding firmly to her nose, Duchamp dived in and stood right next to the sleeping form.

"Ahem!" she offered. The form continued to snore.

"Ahem!" Duchamp again uttered, but this time striking her great staff atop of the table at which this person sat. A half-filled tankard span into orbit, unleashing stale alcohol into the air. The sound of the impact woke up the sleeper with a start. The coat with which they had drawn over themselves during the more rowdy moments of the evening slipped down. A well-drawn masculine face was revealed, which sat upon a rather portly body and sturdy legs. His fine leather jacket was stretching in the middle and long green leggings were stained with beer and ash.

"The hell?" he exclaimed as he looked around bleary eyed.

"And who are you?" asked Duchamp, rather triumphantly. Still half-asleep, the man did not answer.

"Who are you, I said?"

"Uh?"

Duchamp disliked taverns and inns, and she also despised the kind of person who would chose to frequent such a place. But what she really hated was being in a tavern and having talk to a patron who was not cooperating.

She struck her staff on the table again and the resulting sound was like thunder. The two musicians got up and left with their instruments, leaving behind the barkeep, the man, and Duchamp.

"Don't you come in here hassling my customers!. Get out!" the barkeep yelled from behind his bar. Duchamp ignored the publican and continued to intimidate the sleepy man.

"I'll ask you again, who are you?"

"My name?" the man was beginning to gather his senses. Duchamp smiled affirmatively. "Tensil Bengsley"

"And why are you here?" The man shoot a look over to the barkeep, and the barkeep removed himself from his spot and walked over to the inquisition that was taking place in his tavern. Duchamp, who had blocked the barkeep out of her mind, had not heard him approach, so when a firm but harmless hand was placed upon her shoulder, she swung around, bringing the staff in contact with the barkeeps head. Having no idea anything like this was going to happen, the barkeep was totally unprepared and as a result, his ear was nearly completely ripped off. He fell to the floor, holding his wound and watching the blood run down his arm. Duchamp, who was completely devoid of remorse and convinced herself that it was a preemptive strike due to an unprovoked attack by the barkeep, simply looked down at her victim. She then turned back to her suspect.

"Why are you here?" Not wanting the same treatment, the man quickly fell into a cooperative manner, albeit in one word answers.

"Travelling!"

"From where?"

"Goldshire"

"And where to?"

"Dunno"

"You don't know? You have weapons of any sort?"

" Mace."

"Where is it?"

The still-inebriated patron slid his hand down the side of his chair and brought up a dark stone coloured mace with golden rims at the base of the handle. It was of some considerable mass and weighed a great deal. He brought the oval head down on the surface of his table with some force, all the while never removing his eyes from the inquisitive woman. The situation was beginning to sober him up at an astonishing rate, and despite Duchamp's fierce display, he tried to retain a sense of calm and casualty.

"Where did you get it?" she asked

"Vendor". The man's one word answer were like childish responses to Duchamp and she slammed her staff down on the table once more with the accompanying sound of a whip from hell, and this time resulting in a thin crack appearing on the surface of the table.

The man, who was still holding tight the handle of the mace, stood up, wobbling slightly due to some residual alcohol still roaming his bloodstream. Assuming this was a hostile display, Duchamp immediately went on the defensive. She raised her staff in front of her and jumped backwards. The man, having no idea that it was him that caused her to react this way, threw his mace up to his chest and wrapped both hands around the hilt and prepared for an attack.

The man was sweating; his cloak was warm and the fire was sending forth huge waves of heat across the tavern. Duchamp remained perfectly still as the man strafed across the pub and towards the foyer. He walked backwards up the steps that separated it from the main area and stood motionless within sprinting distance of the main door.

Duchamp watched him, with the eyes of an eagle, but made no attempt to decrease the space between them. Instead, she freed her right hand from her staff, extended her arm and pointed the palm of her hand outward towards the man, but nothing happened. The man was jittery to the point of explosion but the high inquisitor made no move or motion. She simply pointed her upturned hand at the patron, knowing full well that he was aware of what would happen were he to make a sudden move. Duchamp relished these moments, holding command over suspect citizen with the white upside of her right hand. The tense situation could have easily been diffused were Duchamp to lower her arm and call for calm, yet she remained steadfast in the threatening pose.

Ten seconds had past, no one had moved. She had hoped that a sudden exit on his part would be evidence enough to some sort of guilt he was harbouring but he made no such move. Duchamp eventually grew tired of their static dance, and rather than drop all weapons and deal with issues rationally, she tensed her fingers and a vile putrid glow sprang fourth from her hand and darted in the direction of the patron. This thin strip of sanctimonious light shot like a vast arrow and struck violently against the man's chest. The unholy projectile connected with such force, it caused him to flip backwards, his hips a pivot almost, and he banged his head on the window sill behind him and fell unconscious immediately. Strange snakes of luminous smoke wound their way from his chest where Duchamp's spell had struck. Soon, all visible evidence of this use of kind of magic had faded and would only be remembered by a half-drunk and unconscious patron of a tavern and Duchamp herself. The landlord had managed to scuttle away during the stand off and exited through a backdoor, but just as Duchamp had ignored his approach, just as she was oblivious to his escape.

The tavern was silent, save for the large fireplace which roared indifferently. Duchamp, who made no attempt to examine to see if her suspect was alive, made straight for his belongings that were located under the table. She picked up a small red sack and emptied out the contents on the table.

It was a relatively small container and held no items of any real interest. Dalarian Blue cheese, a quarter of a loaf of bread, a couple of iron nuggets, a tiny purse of coins, (mostly silver) and some herbs. Duchamp stared at these items, hoping her analytical (or assumptive) mind would piece together a backstory or draw conclusion as to the man's intent. The fact that she could have continued questioning the man when he was still conscious was not a consideration for her. She needed things and actions to determine a person's true allegiance or character, not inane chatter or questionable personal testimony.

She dragged her hand through the items, flipping some over, picking up and examining closely others and general making a mess on the table, yet she was unable to extract any discernible information from these objects. As she looked up at her victim, the main door of the tavern flew open and two peacekeepers ran in, the first one leaping over the rag-doll body in the foyer. With swords out ready, they made their way over the Duchamp, who refrained from being the slightest bit remorseful or explanatory.

The first peacekeeper recognised her immediately, and sheathed his weapon.

"Take him to your cells" she ordered.

"What happened here?" asked the soldier, staring down at the body lying against the wall. Duchamp indulged no information.

"Take him to your cells, officer" she repeated.

"Did he attack you, ma'am?"

She sighed.

"Yes, he attacked me. Now take him to your cells. I will stay here."

"If you think that's wise…" She strolled off to position herself behind the bar and began searching through the compartments and drawers located there. The two guards lifted up the fallen body and took him to the station, sending for a healer as they arrived.

Duchamp continued to scour the inn, rifling through ledgers and guest books, searching under mattresses of the rented rooms and even ransacking the kitchen for slight hint of conspiracy and betrayal, but she found nothing. And all the, while she held no regrets for her actions that night, believing she was acting in self-defence and maintained she was merely upholding the values and interests of the great Kingdom of Stormwind.

Tensil Bengsley, the poor unfortunately lightning rod for Duchamps violently inquisitive nature spent the entire night in a prison cell, and was eventually brought back to health by a healer who soothed the cold burning sensation in his ribcage and all but removed the gash in the back of his head. The landlord too was also mended. Bengsley was from Goldshire, just as he had claimed, and had set off with a cheap weapon he had purchased from a local vendor in search of fortune and glory. Duchamp hated these types and threw her might and power on them undeservingly. To her, these people were nothing more than mercenaries, devoid of any real patriotic empathy for their kin, and only interested in making money and gaining fame. She believed that these types would be far better off in the armies of the Alliance, defending territories and interests for little more than an ounce of pride, which she thought was reward enough. So it came to her unabashed disappointment when her tavernous suspect was released the next day without charge by Deputy Feldon and was once again free to wander the roads, forests and hills of Redridge.

Duchamp had had enough of Lakshire and accused it of having a small town mentality, due to the lack of its cooperative citizens. At no point had she considered that fact that the populace was _not _concealing or keeping things from her; everyone was potentially holding close a dark secret in her opinion. It was now time for her to investigate what she had set off for: The Tower of Illigar. She had been there before, many years ago, when she worked as a spy, gathering information on the growing number of orcs in the area. Her abilities to gather information was not greatly appreciated or believed at the time, but once the Keep had been attacked and over run with Blackrock Orcs, the leaders at Stormwind, began to take her more seriously.

The high inquisitor had assembled a group of five soldiers borrowed from the platoon stationed at the bridge. It was their last day of duty and those that were picked to accompany her to the tower grumbled to each other, all having hoped for a safe, clean end to their duty. She assured them and their superior officer Marshal Marris that she would make the recommendation that they remained stationed there, being that dark forces were once again swelling in the Redridge mountains. This too was met with distain, as the men liked the relative ease of their post but didn't want to remain if things were going to get busy. They had grown soft in their complacency and many often performed their duties in civilian clothing, their intricate armour an immense bother at six in the morning.

But despite the apathy towards their primary function, the few that had been plucked at random by Marris were never the less having to suit and saddle up on what they prayed would be a very uneventful reconnaissance mission.

It was a cloudy morning, and Duchamp was already atop her stead waiting for the lacklusture troops to make their preparations. They were slow and disorganised, but the very fact that they were working for the Kingdom meant they were trustworthy and reliable, at least in Duchamp's eyes.

They had all nearly mounted their horses when a peacekeeper came sprinting from the northside of the town. He ran past the horsed soldiers and darted into the station. A few seconds later, both the peacekeeper and the Deputy came running out, flew around the corner and made their way back up to the northern part of Lakeshire.

Duchamp had seen this and instantly decided to follow them. She commanded the soldiers to hold position and wait for her return, and she and her stead sped off to pursue the two peacekeepers.

She followed them up the slope into the higher regions of the town, and eventually caught up with them just as they approached a house nestled under large elm tree to its right with a rocky incline covered with a dense net of foliage behind it. To the left was a small wooden porch, and desperately clawing at the door which stood over it, was a tiny dishevelled creature.

The high inquisitor dismounted, withdrawing her staff as she did. Deputy Feldon was the first to approach the ragged thing and slowly he placed his hand on its shoulder and turned it around. The thing had all but ignored their approach, so transfixed on entering the wooden portal as it was. Its eyes, sunken and dark, shone in amazement at the sight of the Deputy, and what looked like smile emerged from the muddy surface of it face. The spindly form then collapsed onto the porch, with both officers rushing to pick it up.

Remaining firmly by her horse, Duchamp stood with her weapon held long in front of her as if she wanted to keep the thing away for fear of disease rather than fear of attack. The officers hurried the limp body to the local infirmary and once again, called on the healer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter nine**

Carod opened his eyes. There, above him, was a white ceiling. He closed his eyes and reopened them again and looked up. There was the ceiling again, wide, flat and unadorned with blood, dirt and injury. _At least my eyes work_, he thought to himself._ At least my mind works too!_, he further pondered. His head had either vastly gained in weight or his neck had turned into paper, either way, he was unable to raise his skull to look around. His body too was completely immobile yet at no point was a sense of danger or harm lurking in the ether. He attempted to move other parts of his body and his fingers immediately came into contact with something he had kept in the back of his mind like a lifeline for the past two weeks. Not great quality, probably not pure white for all he could see, but they were soft nevertheless. His fingers grabbed as best they could large folds of this material and he let it run through his worn digits. He did this for about half an hour, not wanting to investigate further his environment or caring to call out to see if he was alone or even still had a working voice. _If this is a dream_, he thought,_ let me just dangle here in its opulence experiencing this one sensation_. A great wind howled to his right, and he realised he was not dreaming and he let go of the bedsheets. Footsteps approached his horizontal body but whose source remained beyond his periphery. An unfamiliar but benevolent face loomed into his view.

"How do you feel?" said the face. To his surprise, Carod let out a reply but it flowed without such hinderence or apprehension that it felt like a mountain stream of pure honey was pouring from his mouth.

"I can't feel anything" was his reply. There had been a time when he was rife with pain, but this had eventually been put on hold and moved to the back of his thoughts, waiting a time when his body could handle such horrific sensations. The feeling he had now, however, was rather one of numbness as opposed to relief.

"You feel any sensation anywhere?" the face said back, scanning the rest of his body.

"I can feel the sheets."

"With your hands and feet?"

He rotated his feet. The material upon his soles far exceeded the sensation on his fingers.

"Yes!" he cried, not in so much that he could feel his feet, but that he was experiencing something he had longed for.

"Good lad. You will be here for another day at least. There are some other checks I need to perform."

Physician Mandi withdrew from Carod's vision and retreated back to his desk. He had come to Lakeshire to retire, having spent over thirty years healing and piecing soldiers and warriors back together in the field of battle. It was a part of his life he had come to Lakeshire to forget, and yet his patients always invariably questioned him on these past experiences.

He wore a rough beard that hid many scars that he was not able to heal himself and sported a cleanly shaved head of no hair. Tired of travelling and far too old to be in battle, he had set up a healing clinic in the Redridge Mountains and was satisfied in only having to stitch up the odd gash or apply numbing moss to burns. He also possessed great healing powers that flowed from his finger tips. These streams and lights that repaired damaged bodies and stopped bleeding were much sought after, especially in the battle field, although he always considered himself a mediocre healer and resigned himself to that fact, hence his contentment as a small town medic.

Upon seeing the state of Carod, however, Mandi was required to summon forth a great deal of magic in order to bring life back into that decrepit body, although he did so as a last resort. Carod had been slowly nursed back to health over four days, during which he fluxed in and out of consciousness and to and from reality. The first two days of his recovery was watched over by the concerned eye of Deputy Feldon and the suspicious eye of High Inquisitor Duchamp.

"Where am I?" Carod asked, half smiling and still circulating his feet against the cloth.

"Lakeshire, of course"

"Yes, Lakeshire! I walked here." He was recounting his past steps with almost a subconscious ignorance of the events prior to it.

"Save your breath, young man. Relax, please."

"I walked here…" he continued. "From the woods. Many days."

"Please, just rest. You will have plenty of time to tell us your story later."

Mandi had been given explicit instructions by Duchamp to not let the patient talk or utter any information unless she was there. He informed the inquisitor that he could do no such thing as muzzling a human who was in his care, and instead agreed to calling for her as soon as he woke. Yet, he knew Carod was in no fit state to endure such questioning, especially from her and so allowed his patient to gain his faculties in his own time.

As well as healing the broken bones, twisted ligaments and sliced flesh, Mandi had also imbued Carod with a sort of warmth that soothed and calmed him in his heart and in his mind. Carod was statically swimming in this indefinable glow, bathing in its cool waters and letting nothing in or out. It was this elixir that was heightening the senses in his fingers and feet, although Mandi knew that a clean warm bed on its own merits can work wonders on a broken body.

Carod began chuckling to himself, and Mandi span from his desk to face to patient and grinned in response

"Why did you not call for me?" Duchamp let out. Mandi turned to face the inquisitor as she came striding into the infirmary. She drew herself between Carods bed and Mandi's desk, and stared directly at the recovering patient.

"It is best that he makes a complete recovery. I am sure your questions can wait a few hours."

"Who's that?" Carod called out, still unable to see past his immediate visual orbit. Duchamp wasted no time.

"What business had you with Morganth? What are you planning? Speak?"

"High Inquisitor please!" he is still recovering.

"Hi inquisitor." Carod rang out.

"I insist you wait a few more days!" Said Mandi "He is in no fit condition to answer anything. He is in a very lucid state due to the sedative I administered a few hours ago. It will help with…"

"You will answer me! Tell me about Morganth!" she roared at the bleary-eyed patient.

"I will. Who is with me? I can…"

"Talk sense!"

After much convincing from Doctor Mandi, Duchamp vacated the infirmary, fuming as she did. Carod eventually broke free of his wonderous slumber a few hours later and the horrors of his past two weeks soon came flooding back. He was inconsolable at first, then calm, then inconsolable again, but eventually the pendulum that swung from denial to harsh reality eventually centred itself. This was partly due to the comforting nature of his surrounding and Mandi's well-honed indispensible bedside manner.

The next day, Carod was then coaxed to sit up, each movement wary of a potentially recurring buzz of pain that could strike unannounced. Yet his transition was smooth, and he was then able to swing his legs over the side of the bed and place his feet on the floor. His mood, although elated at not having to feel any injuries was greatly offset by the knowledge that he had seen a friend die right in front of his eyes. He had pushed this memory out of his head during his imprisonment to make way for more immediate factors but now with him being safely within the confines of his home town, the thoughts resurfaced and he knew he would have to face it regardless of its unpleasant nature.

Mandi's healing abilities were quite phenomenal, despite his modesty, and on the day he was able to sit upright, Carod was able to walk over to a mirror on one wall of the infirmary. He hobbled over, and he seemed to exhibit a limp, although this appeared to be in both legs. They remembered the sharp constant agony and were scared to be placed in front of one another.

Yet, all the same, Carod wound up in front of the mirror. He didn't look too bad for someone who had fallen from a cliff edge, been attacked, beaten, held prisoner and was subject to days of thorns and thistles. He stared into the mirror for a long time, turning his head this way and that, trying to study all his scars, assessing the ones he knew he had received, being surprised by ones he didn't. He was almost on the verge of admiring the physical memories that clung to his face and body, when the thought of a dead friend brought him back from his place of childish romantics. Returning to his bed and sitting himself down, he informed the Doctor that he was ready to give his statement to the Deputy. Whilst in his lucid state, he had not retained any memory of the venomous woman who was standing over him, spitting questions, and had no idea about the suspicions placed upon him. He envisioned a quick statement, followed by a funeral for his friend, with him returning back to his old job and never trying anything so foolish again.

His clothes had been removed while he was being treated and kept for evidence by Duchamp. Temporary clothes were giving to him from a second-hand war charity, yet these were ill-fitting and of a poor quality. They scratched at his skin, and as the wonderous healing abilities of the town physician cast away his pains, this irritation grew. But all he while, he knew that he would soon be back in his normal clothes, and he was willing to forego the last few days of recovery if it meant submitting him statement and regaining his life.

"I should warn you" Mandi said as he was placing a cloak over Carods back. " we have an inquisitor in town. She is rather ruthless. Be warned."

Carod took this advice on board but the willingness he had to give his story and get back to a normal life far outweighed the fears caused by the rumours of an adamant inquisitor.

The physician and Carod slowly made their way to the Deputies station, where Duchamp and Feldon were waiting. On entering the door, Duchamp immediately grabbed hold of Carods shoulder and led in further into the station, and up to a small wooden chair. The physician, having handed the care of his patient over to the authorities, backed out the building, saying:-

"If he shows sign of any pain or discomfort, send for me immediately". This statement was directed at Duchamp, something which she ignored. Instead, Feldon responded.

"Thank you Mandi, we will. Thank you for your help. Good day."

The doctor closed the door behind him and left Carod alone with Feldon and Duchamp.

It was late evening and a strong wind that had been encircling the town for a couple of days was continuing to rap at windows and doors, and especially those at the peacekeepers station. Tiny gaps under the frames and sills let through a cold, elongated moan, and further making Carod less at ease. The station was not known for its comfort or warmth and it was a big contrast to summer-like dreaminess of the room in which he had been recovering.

"Water?" Duchamp asked. She was never this accommodating for the most part, but in special cases, when she really wanted to siphon the dark secrets and hidden truths from people, she brought out the tenderness and compassion, albeit it a mask for her ferocity.

"Yes please." He mumbled.

"Any food?"

"I have already eaten."

"Good. Well I am glad you are recovering. Feeling any more pain at all? Any more discomfort?"

"I am feeling better, thank you."

Was this the woman the physician had warned him about?

"I am so glad! Now, we will need you to answer a few questions for us."

"Yes, ok."

He had known this day would come and he had spent the previous hour practising articulate summations of his story in his head. The Deputy picked up a grubby little quill and poised it over a large piece of parchment, and waited for the interview to start.

"Ok" began Duchamp, "your name first please and then your address."

"Er… Carod Osmund, the loft at Coffington House, Lakeshire."

"Your job?"

"Junior notary"

"Lovely. Now you were declared missing over two weeks ago. Where had you been?"

"Well, in the mountains." He stuttered forth this information with some concern. Did they not know where he had been? Had the others not informed them? It then dawned on him that the other may not have made it back to Lakeshire.

"In the mountains?"

"Er… yes." Carod was completely unaware of the suspicion that was place upon him and unaware of Duchamp tactics and power, and so he was set on recalling forth all facts in detail with no intention of lying or bending the truth. Yet with every 'er' or every stutter, Duchamp grew more weary, believing he was constructing a story built on lies and deception. Without knowing it, Carod was driving the nails into his own coffin.

"The others not tell you that I missing?" he asked

The deputy stopped scribbling.

"The others? Who went with you?" asked he Deputy, quill hovering over the paper in anticipation of the reply.

"Well, me, Toby (he died)…"

"Toby's dead?" exclaimed Feldon.

"Let him carry on with his statement!" barked Duchamp, lifting the lid ever so slightly on the beast she was trying to contain.

"…Toby, Brandt and two people he knew. I forgot their names. They weren't friends." Carod looked at both Duchamp and Feldon. "They came back?"

"Five people went missing, " explained Feldon, "and you are the only one to return to us."

"Why?" enquired Duchamp, growing impatient. "Why and when? Continue"

"Oh, er… well, Brandt came to me and told me that he knew someone who knew someone who could take us to go and see the Tower."

"What tower would that be?" Duchamp knew perfectly well but she need a comprehensive and water tight statement.

"Er…, Illgar, Illigar?"

" But _why_?" she asked

Carod had already explained why they had gone into the mountain and was beginning to sweat at the confusing line of questioning.

"To see the Tower"

"But _why?_" she yelled, all masks and veils of decency and friendliness evaporated with a single question. She was waiting for a phrase or a word that would undoubtedly reveal his lies or uncover his true allegiances but the tale he was regaling was infuriating her with its notions of romanticism and visions of glory, something she utterly detested.

"Why?" Carod clarified

"Why?" she spat.

The questioning carried on for an hour and a half, draining Carod of all energy he had recuperated from the hospital bed. His account had been truthful and faithful to the events, even down to his own thoughts and things said. Yet to Duchamp, she held in high disregard every word he uttered, completely convinced it was a well thought-out and fabricated lie. He had been seen conversing with a known enemy of Stormwind, and no doubt enduring horrific self-inflicted injuries in order to authenticate the lie, a tactic that is well used amongst the most dedicated of spies and agents.

The one thing Duchamp could not deduce was why four other people had to disappear as well. She had no idea as to whether they were alive or dead, doubting Carod's story as she did. All she was aware the five people left Lakeshire one day and only one returned. The mages of Azora did their best to see into the Tower during Carod's capture but could not identify the faces of those who were not Morganth. Despite this fuzzy piece of intel, Duchamp was adamant that the only one of the five to return was the very one seen conversing with the dark warlock.

But what use was four humans to a warlock. Tests? He had an army of gnoll on which to experiment. Torture for information? They were just townsfolk and knew nothing of importance.

Once the questioning had finished and all areas of Duchamp's initial curiosity had been quenched, Carod breathed a sigh of relief and longed for his lodgings. But Duchamp, even before the interview began, was not going to let him go that easily.

Her mind drew together all assumptions into one dastardly plot with only a few holes that needed plugging. Carod was sent into Lakeshire years ago by his master Morganth, his parentage kept vague to hide his true background. He wormed his way into the notary offices in the town hall, where he became acquainted with all documents, ledgers, contracts, deeds and other official businesses. He was on his way to report back to Morganth one day, he was followed by four people of the town, no doubt doing their civic duty and pursuing the strange and suspicious. They had been spotted though and Morganth disposed of them. To make sure no one else had seen them, including those via the Eye of Azora, injuries were purposely inflicted upon Carod, making him a victim. He would return, give his excuses and carry on spying, gathering information for some ghastly attack.

It all seemed perfectly logical to her, but she now needed proof; his statement was purely circumstantial. All she needed was time, time to find more evidence. Or time to extract the truths she wanted to hear. Or even force him to say the things she wanted to hear. Either way, she was going to have her way.

At times during the interview, Duchamp had sped the conversation along so quickly that Deputy Feldon had to ask them to stop whilst he caught up with the dictation. This frustrated the High Inquisitor as it broke the momentum of her questioning, something she had long ago learned to transform into a poetic rhythm which darted at the suspect with precision and dazzle.

Upon the last of Carod's statement being scribbled down onto the last piece of parchment, Duchamp stood up and turned to the Deputy.

"Take him to the cells." she demanded.

"The cells, ma'am?" said the Deputy for clarification.

"We have not finished with him."

"We have. We have his statement. We have no reason to keep him."

"To the cells please."

Carod could do nothing but look on with horror as the people he thought he was safe amongst, were about to cast him once more into a prison.

"But why, High Inquisitor?" Feldon demanded.

"Do not question me! You will take him to the cells."

Carod coughed up a retort from his now churning innards. The safety blanket had once again been torn from shivering form, leaving him cold, exposed and naked.

"I don't understand." He said. "I have told you what happened!"

Duchamp ignored him and simply stared at the Deputy, as did Carod, who was hoping for Feldon to leap to his rescue and defy the High Inquisitor's order. But Feldon knew what ignoring an order from such a high ranking official such as her would mean, and he despondently rose and motioned Carod to do the same.

"Thank you, Deputy." She walked over to the coat rack in the corner, threw on her cape and hat, walked out the door.

At first, Feldon did not move. He remained motionless, staring at nothing. His mind was a torrent of conflicts. He knew this was wrong, and they had absolutely no right in holding Carod in their cells without any cause. Thoughts of defiance and purity of justice filled him up and at one point he even considered letting Carod go, with ten gold pieces to start a new life somewhere. But he knew, deep down, that Duchamp had the full trust of the politicians and leaders of Stormwind, a formidable force that he alone could not contend with, and to defy an order from a High Inquisitor by freeing Carod would mean certain doom for both of them.

Eventually, he broke himself free from his thoughts and gently grabbed Carod by the arm, leading him toward the cells.

"I don't understand!" said Carod. "Why am I going to the cells?"

"We need you for more questioning" Feldon was well aware why Duchamp wanted him detained, and he tried his best to make his words sound convincing.

"More questioning? But surely I can go home? You know where I live."

"It's just a precaution."

"Precaution against what? You can't lock me up unless I have been charged with something."

"It's for your own safety" It was another lie, but this time neither Feldon nor Carod where convinced.

"Safety? From whom am I to be kept safe?"

Feldon paused.

"Morganth. If he has disappeared as you said he has, he might be coming here." This was Feldon's last pathetic excuse for Carods detainment, and the two slowly made their way to a large iron door at the back of the station.

The Deputy signalled over the desk sergeant, who strolled over with a large, flat key. "I'll book this one in Sergeant." Said Feldon.

"Very well Sir" he replied.

Next to the iron door was a wooden podium, on which sat a narrow, leatherbound book. Feldon picked up the quill that was hanging on the side by a length of frayed string, dunked it in an ink pot embedded in a nook and opened the book. All of Carod's details were faithfully filled in but when he approached the charge under which he was to be placed in the cells, he merely hovered over the blank space. He waved the tip of his quill in the air above the space as if to inspire him. He did not know exactly of what Duchamp was suspecting him and she gave no reason for his detainment and so it was up to Deputy Feldon to log in the charge, and by the laws of Stormwind, he was not allowed to leave it blank. He thought about it for a minute, brought the end of his quill up to his lips, then wrote down "Trespassing" in the gap. It was a minor misdemeanour and rather a victimless one at that.

Feldon unlocked the iron door and was met with a grey rectangle of dank, musty air. Beyond the door laid a tiny stretch of flooring, to the left of which was a set of thin, stone stairs leading down. Once again holding Carod by the arm, Feldon moved through the door and down these steps.

It was dark down there, only one candle offering light at one end of a long corridor, which had five barred cells running along both sides, three on one side, two on the other. The side that held two cells contained the stairwell down which Carod was now being lead. It was quiet, and only the caustic lick of the walled candle sounded out.

The two men reached the bottom of the stairs, one distant, confused and uncertain, the other furious that he had to relent to such injustice and abuse of power. Across from the bottom step, on the opposite side of the stairs, was a small, slightly indignant cell, with wide solid bars across the front. The Deputy opened the cell with his keys and ushered poor Carod in. It was the cleanest of the cells, Feldon was giving him this much but it was no match for his own place and bed. Carod shuffled in and scanned the darkness waiting for his eyes to adjust. The door was closed quietly behind him and the key was turned with the upmost of gentleness.

"I am sorry. This will be over soon. Just a few more questions to help with our enquiries, and then you can go home" mumbled Feldon as he returned to the foot of the stairs. "I will also get the physician to come and check you over, and maybe provide you with a more comfortable bed. How does that sound?" Carod held onto the bars of his cell. They were cold and damp.

"But why? He asked

"I told you! Stormwind needs to make sure. It needs to make sure everything is safe, as it should be. OK?" Feldon gave a reassuring smile, and he made it convincing as possible. Carod sighed slightly, with apprehensive relief. He wasn't sure if he believed the Deputy's answers and reasons, but at this point he was willing to lose all concerns he had if it meant helping his people and returning to a normal life.

"I will fetch for Physician Mandi" said Feldon, and he turned and ascended the stairs. He passed through the iron door at the top, locking it behind him. The rattle and clangs of the key turning echoed around the cells and faded. The sound of the candle was now more apparent to Carod, and he moved to the centre of his new confinement, and gazed around at the various shades, glows and shadows.

It was a while before the crackling sound of a lone candle was broken by an odd wheezing noise. Carod swept the darkness in vain to try and locate the source. This pained respiration continued, and soon it because a disgusting hoarsey choke. Carod walked to his bars and held on the vertical metal strips and brought his face up between them. The gassy, burnt throaty coughs were piping out of the cell diagonally across from him. He stared deep into the dark cell opposite but the candle lit the bars so much that the contrast was too great to distinguish. The noise stopped and a rustling sound began. A face loomed out of the darkness and caught the light that shone from the walls. The large face looked at Carod but did nothing. It was a wide, flat surface, wildly bearded with rogue whiskers spring out in all directions. A brow that appeared to once have been heavy with hair protruded over the beard like the sail of a ship. Sandwiched in between the hairy muzzle and brow sat a flat bent nose, red and swollen, and two bulging eyes which remained in close contact with each other. It was a dwarf.

Carod had seen some before but mainly out of a window or even passed a few in the darkness on his way past the tavern. But he never had dared converse with one.

The dwarf's face hung in the darkness, looking at Carod with some interest. Carod looked back, thinking to himself that nothing else could go wrong for him if he did. The dwarf's facial colour scheme was hard to decipher, for all the spectrum and light the candle dished out. Then, a series of words that sounded as if they had been passed through sandpaper, dribble out of the dwarfs mouth.

"Who are you then? Whatcha do?" It was either whispering or that was its maximum volume.

"Nothing. I think I am just helping them with some enquires, I think."

"Ha! They don't lock you up for helping them. Whatcha do, really?

"I don't know" Carod answered, backed away from the bars and into the darkness of his cell. He waved his hand behind him until he came in contact with a lumpy mattress and a thin, ripped blanket. He sat down. The darkness, although powerful and mysterious was not enough to block out the coarse-throated prisoner across from him.

"Hey!" he croaked "Come back, I'm talkin'"

Carod made no reply and instead laid down on the cot and closed his eyes.

"Hey you in there!" the dwarf continued "Come back I said!"

His tone was growing angry and Carod did his best to ignore the increasingly hostile prisoner. He raised his arms over both his ears and turned onto his side, yet the smokey, volatile words of the dwarf were still audible.

"Hey" he shouted "Hey! Hahaha!" The dwarf began to laugh, but it gargled up through dusty pipes and spat forth from a yellow cavernous mouth, and in short sustained rhythms that tailed off into a long dying wheeze. Something had amused the stumped prisoner and he began an opera of cackles, snorts and deep chested roars. Carod tried to lock it out but it echoed loudly around his cell. And the raw image of the dwarfs face sprang up in front of his eyes as the laughter circulated the prison: a wild, crazy, bearded head, disembodied in the darkness, jerking up and down with each guffaw and sending out a putrid stare from sunken eyes. Carod wished hard that the physician would get here soon, with a guard, and would get this dwarf to shut his disgusting lungs. He waited for half an hour but no one came.

One hour went by. Two hours and still nothing. By now, the dwarf had thankfully finished his tobacco fuelled wheezes, but was now attempting to sing. They were not traditional pieces, nor where they of anything that could be considered music. Instead, he was crudely recounting his past endeavours, both devious and vile, and trying his best adhere some type of melody to his sentences. To make things worse for Carod, he had also begun smacking his mattress and bars, as well as stomping his feet in order to give himself basic kind of percussive accompaniment. And all the while, Carod laid curled on his bed, arms flung over his head and wishing for either the morning to arrive or for the dwarf to die, yet neither seemed as if it was going to happened anytime soon. It was going to be a long night.

Carod eventually woke up the next morning, having got only two hours sleep. His nightly tormentor was now silent and had huddled in a disgusting mass on his crib, a pile of rags and hair to look at it. To Carod's surprise, the morning sun had revealed that there was a tiny window at the top of the wall against which his bed was placed. It was only a tiny gap, with bars running down it, yet it managed to squeeze through the sounds and smells of the average Lakeshire morning.

Hunger was now growing in his belly and had no idea of the time, or what was going to happened to him this morning. He sat on the edge of his bed for a while, waiting for someone to come down those steps and end this bizarre situation and hoping that the odious dwarf across from him didn't wake up and resume his ghastly performance.

Eventually, the Deputy came down the stairs, unlocked Carod's cell, handed him a piece of bread, and led him up the stairs. He did all this without making any eye contact with Carod, as if ashamed of the behaviour on behalf of all of Stormwind. They entered the main offices to find High Inquisitor Duchamp standing by the main door, standing sanctimonious and proud at the same time. Carod's heart flew a little upon seeing Duchamp, and knew instantly that with only a few more questions to be asked and he would be free to go home. He could see his flat in his head. Dark, dusty, dull and exactly where he wanted to be right now. He saw his bed. Basic and functional, but to him it was calling to him, offering unknown pleasures and an infinity of rest. All that stood between him and those wondrous things was another hour or so of questions. He was practically home free.

"Is he ready?" Duchamp asked Feldon.

"Yes" he replied, edging Carod slowly towards the entrance

"Good. Bring him out here! And where are his bindings?"

Carod stood confused for a second.

"Bindings?" he said "What for? Why do I need bindings?"

Duchamp ignored her suspects questions as thought they were poisonous, and Feldon avoided answering for he had no real reply. The Deputy led Carod across the station and they emerged out in the open to find that two horses, a rider, and a carriage awaited them. The carriage was small and had tiny windows across which bars were placed. Carod gasped.

"What's going on? Who is this wagon for? For me?" He asked in all directions, hoping someone would reply him, but for the most part he faced the Deputy.

"What is going on? Will someone please tell me what…" Two officers grabbed each of his arms and brought him round to the back of the fortified cart. A thick door at the rear swung open, and they lifted Carod up and slid him in with ease. Carod, who was exhibiting the movements of an old man due to his gradual recovery, attempted to sit up on the cold metal floor but was met with some difficulty. He writhed and turned, all the while yelling out for comprehension and information. He eventually sat himself up on his backside, and clung to the barred window that faced outward toward Duchamp and Feldon.

"Please! You said I was to just help with some more questions. Where am I being taken? Deputy, please!" he cried. Carod face was one of genuine fear, his brow wrinkled with confusion. Yet Duchamp deemed Carod's display as something of pure deception and she scoffed at his pleas and questions. She turned to the Deputy.

"Ok, now the dwarf."

The two officers disappeared inside the station.

"Deputy, can you not tell me what is going on?" begged Carod. Feldon did not answer for fear of revealing the Inquisitors suspicions and instead remained rooted to the ground, gazing everywhere but Carod's eyes. Duchamp, however had no problem with making eye contact with her prisoner. It was her way of letting the enemies of Stormwind that she was not someone to be messed with. Her arms were tightly folded and her back was rigid and proud. A gentle smirk swam around her lips as the dawn of another conviction approached. This level of intimidation was too much for Carod to bear in his situation and he instantly looked away, and for about three minutes, the three of them were locked in a strange triangle.

The two officers reemerged moments later with the ragged, squat tramp, who luckily for Carod was half asleep. He had had his hand already chained and was now being lifted up and was slid into the cage where the dwarf simply fell back into his dreams once he found a suitable area on which to lie. The tiny door at the rear of the cart was closed and locked.

Without explanation, without charge, without seeing his home again or having a friend offer support or help, the carriage started rolling, its uneven, unbalanced frame rocking from side to side. Two soldiers and an officer were to accompany the prison wagon on horseback, and the troupe set off from the peacekeeper station and down the hill toward the bridge. Yet Carod never gave up with asking for information and demanding answers, and as the prison cart drew away from the peacekeepers station, his words gradually became useless. He suddenly understood the futility of his situation and hoped that wherever he was being taken, someone would inform him what was going on.

He withdrew from the bars of the cart and turned inwards, lest someone in the streets he knew saw him. And saw him they might have, for such a carriage draws much curiosity and scorn. Without knowing the contents, people spat and swore as the carriage passed them, with the occasional stone or rock being flung at the bars.

The procession reached the bridge and the cart jerked violently as it passed over the cobbled surface. The old notary was standing on the bridge, watching the water course and swell underneath it, but he stopped and turned around upon hearing the prison wagon approaching. The sun was in his eyes and he could not properly see into the cart, and he raised his scrawny arm in order to shield the glare from his eyes. Carod spied the old man, and was about to scream out to his old employer for help when the aged notary shouted "Scum!" at the wagon. At first, he assumed the old man was not aware that he was in the wagon, and that a simple call would alert him to this injustice, when something dawned on him. There was very little that happened in the town that the old man wasn't aware of, and that he must have known of Carods reappearance and his subsequent imprisonment and transfer. Carod sunk into himself as he deduced that the old man knew exactly who was in the wagon.

The prison cart reached the other side of the bridge and rolled out onto the open road.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter ten**

The churned and battered lane that wound its way down from the Redridge mountains was steep and at times, treacherous, and was often a great strain on the horses. The caged wagon was not built for comfort and was hastily constructed, with large metal plates welded and bolted together into an ugly cube. It was an old, archaic vehicle that nevertheless served its purpose and was sent for in haste during the night whilst Carod was folding his body up on the puny mattress in his cell. And now here he was, thrown into this wheeled cage, devoid of answers and neglected of truth, and completely confused. And yet there was a certain amount of relenting on his part. When held prisoner in the warlock's tower, he was filled with a great alien uncertainty, and a lack of any kind of comprehension or relativity. But here he was amongst his own people, a people he longed to be back amongst, and although he was now being subjected to an ordeal whose reason eluded him, there as a tiny sense of ease permeating his thoughts, convincing himself that everything was going to be alright. He had never heard of cases injustice and false imprisonment before, and merely explained away his current situation to a grave misunderstanding that he hoped would soon be sorted out.

These thoughts and more he clung to. No longer was he at the mercy of an unpredictable and powerful sorcerer, but back in the vast kingdom of Stormwind, albeit in a cage.

The cart rolled over the bumpy surface of the road, causing Carod, who was sitting bolt upright and using his forearms as protection against the metal walls, to be shook from side to side, like he were ingredients being mixed together. His travelling companion, the dwarf, remained sleeping on his side. He too using his great hairy arms to rest upon, and as the cart rode up inclines and sped down dips, his slumbering body slid back and forth across the metallic floor and did not wake him.

Flanking either side of the cart was a mounted soldier. They were both greatly experienced in this sort of duty and took their tasks highly seriously. Tense and alert were their bodies were and beaten and scored was their armour and their heads constantly rotated in all directions, causing their helmets to scrap rather unpleasantly against their chest plates. Through the helmets, their faces were mean and foul, a look that was meant to be highly menacing and a deterrent. Hardly did they ever converse or even glance at the prisoners, and when such rarities happen, it was accompanied by a snarl or spit. These two soldiers, these escorts of caged traitors and villains, were the results of an over-indulgence of patriotism and it was as if they had been hand picked by Duchamp herself, merely for seeming to uphold the same proud and honourable ethics as her.

At the rear of the procession, rode Marshal Marris, and he couldn't care less. He in fact had not been instructed to aid the transportation of these prisoners, rather he had been removed from his post of senior officer of the platoon stationed at Lakeshire Bridge and was to report back to the barracks at Stormwind. The bridge at Lakeshire was all but finished and the protection that the troops were sent there to offer, while construction was still being carried out, was no longer needed. However, with High Inquisitor Duchamp insisting that the platoon stay, the troops were ordered to remain put, and to continue with their fight against all malevolent outside forces. Marris, however, had earned his points. Having falsified reports, exaggerated evidence and imagined accounts, these soldiers were deemed an effective defensive and scouting unit, and all thanks to their commander. It was this that led Marris' superiors to remove him from that post and place him where his instinctive leadership and admirable qualities could be applied. Marris was devastated. His plans of remaining on the idyllic town of Lakeshire didn't work, even though he always knew it wouldn't last forever.

And so he trotted along behind the prisoners, barely attempting to make conversation or act like an officer.

The prison train moved further down from the warm, dry, dusty red mountains, with a sullen officer, two loyal guards, a sleeping dwarf, a broken human and an indifferent coachman who grumbled to himself for nearly the entire time they had been on the road.

It was a long journey from the mountains, and soon the wagon was rolling over a more horizontal surface, much to the horses and Carod's relief. The road was still running adjacent to a wall of shrubs, trees and thickets, and Carod had no idea where he was.

At the start of their journey Carod had called out to Marris, asking for clarification as to their destination. Marris told him they were travelling to Stormwind City, and this was as much as he bothered to let out. Carod made no other attempt at engaging him or anyone else for that matter. Occasionally, one of the escorts would strike the side of the cart with his sword, causing a shrill clang which always made Carod jump. The guards merely did this because they could. And yet Carod did not dare complain or retaliate. By now, he was just content to let things play out.

The troupe soon began to pass through a great, deep forest, whose innards were thick with bark and branch, and whose leaves denied the ground any patch of sunlight greater that a square foot. Birds sang and boughs creaked, and one could only see as far into the woods as far as they could throw. It was a decidedly greener affair than the woodlands in the Redridge Mountains, leaves there preferring to wear browns, auburns and yellows. The road wound through this great forest for many miles and the prison cart followed it, weaving through the impressive collage of bark and canopy.

Late afternoon arrived and the coachman, after convincing the two escorts, stopped the cart by a small bridge that ran over a stream. He jumped down from his seat and landed hard on path below, with a snap coming from his body that was both his knees and back. He was a man in his late 50's and not of a particularly good health, yet he leapt from the cart with the nimbleness of a cat. Shuffling around to the side of the prison cart, he pulled out a couple of pathetic loaves from a satchel he was carrying, and poked them through the bars of the prison cart. Carod managed to grab one before it hit the floor, and the other landed by the dwarfs head, half of it coming to rest on strands of his greasy, wild hair.

"Thank you" said Carod in his most appreciative voice. The coachman just grumbled some kind of response and walked off behind a tree five metres away. The two escorts remained mounted, but one pulled out some food from his hip sack and began hurriedly devouring it. Once he had finished gorging on that measly portion, the other soldier began eating his food, with the same sense of haste. Marris merely took a sip of liquid from a canteen. Although the two soldiers knew that it was not water in there, they were not yet brave enough to enquire as to its true contents.

The coachman reappeared from behind the tree, looking rather relieved. He made his way towards the front of the coach but not before he stopped by the cart widow.

"How you doing in there?" He said as he pointed his head upwards towards the tiny opening.

"How much further to go?" asked Carod.

"We'll get there tomorrow. That is unless we get attacked. Many bandits in these parts. Been attacked meself a few times. Still, me and the soldiers can always ride off, flee the scene. I can leap onto one of those horses and gallop to safety. You guys, however, would be stuck here. Happened once about ten years ago..."

"We shouldn't stop here!" Barked one of the escorts. The driver ignored him.

"...We came under a heavy attack, so I fled, leaving the prisoners and the escorts behind. When I returned a few hours later, they were all dead. You're just sitting ducks in there. Easy prey for the uninitiated killer."

One of the soldiers rode up to the coachman, his horse's face brought up close for intimidation.

"We can't stay here. We must continue."

"All right sonny. Just having a few words." Carod didn't like being told about the dangers of being incarcerated on the open road, but as the dwarf was fast asleep, he was in fact being fed his very own personal horror story. The coachman mumbled something under his breath and returned to his seat. The procession set off once more, but with Carod excitedly scanning the surrounding woods for signs of suspicious movements

Four hours passed and apart from the odd sparrow flying out of the trees or a few peasants passing in the counter-direction, nothing intercepted their journey. As the sun was setting and the shade the forest roof offered became thick and impenetrable, they reached the small hamlet of Goldshire, a tiny settlement of humans tucked away deep in the woods. The soldiers dismounted and took the prisoners to the cells at the local peacekeeper station, Carod with much cooperation, and the dwarf with much difficulty. Night was approaching, and while the two escorts sat in the local tavern downing water and eating warm soup, and Marris moped about at the bar, Carod was preparing himself for another night in a dark, damp cell.

* * *

><p>The procession set off early the next morning, with the escorts well slept and full of a hearty breakfast and Carod extremely tired and weak due to another very sleepless night and only having boiled potatoes as food. The dwarf was more than satisfied with his meal and wolfed it down as if trying to get the food to hurdle his taste buds and land directly into his stomach. Marris had spent much of the night drinking and was not looking his best, or indeed feeling his best.<p>

The morning was cloudy and dull, and the fact that the trees that constituted the great forest were dense and over-bearing, did not help. The road ahead was dark, the collection of wide trunks that blocked out the horizon to the sides of them, even darker. Carod would have been subject to a primal fear of isolation and loneliness had it not been for the counter traffic rumbling past. The journey from Lakeshire was relatively quiet, only ever passing a few inquisitive travelling merchants and a number of roaming soldiers, yet here was a road abuzz with activity. Carod barely noticed the change at first, being that the heavy atmosphere of the forest offered very little opportunity for distant sounds to travel and echo.

A sudden parade of colours and shapes flashed past his barred window and then were lost in the gloom. Occasionally, the sound of hooves and feet would rocket past them, flying in the same direction as the prison wagon. Stalls and static carts were overtaken, and teams of burdened people often stood aside to allow the prisoners through. As it was traversed, the path increased with life and action, and as the tree tops thinned, the activity below it grew. This was merely the road to Stormwind and it was if the city itself had sent out a little welcome present for Carod, providing him with a microcosm of the great metropolis. Carod simply sat back in the rickety cage and watched the soul and life of Stormwind trickle out. They would be within the city walls in less than an hour.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter eleven**

It was midmorning in the city of Stormwind and already one of its streets was swelling with a tumultuous populace that pulsated and groaned. A sea of bodies thronged and beat against the tall greying buildings that flanked the pavements and these dwellings and constructions bared down over the streets below as if with condescension. These buildings wore a façade that had been battered with time and repaired with apathy, but were now alive with motion and activity. Windows were flung open and people hung out, peering down one end of the street. The river of humans that ran between these architectual shores were whipping up into a great frenzy. Bodies hung off lamppost and stood on walls. Men and woman pushed and shoved, and children involuntarily became squashed. The resulting noise was a constant humming which throbbed and peaked, and a sound that resembled rain rang out as each human stomped, barged and fought for their own private space.

And still more people flooded in, causing waves to ripple through the existing crowd and a few having to take refuge on awnings and roofs. The street was a long stretch of urban pride, a fanfare of human tenacity, even without the hundreds of people massing in its road. It was lined, just as fine jackets are, with the most respected of fronts and brands. This was Stormwind's main drag, a wide and long parade of shops and business, traders and merchants and it laid out its contents for all who entered the huge city via its main gates. It was not just a defiant message sent out by a city still young in the world, but a continent wide herald, displaying the wealth, ingenuity and determination of the human people.

The dense crowd of excited people was now at boiling point, cheers were responded with yells, and screams replied with hoorahs. It was a horrific sight. Then, directly down the centre of the street, the crowd began to split like scissor had cut through an extremely tense material, and the stone road beneath widened in appearance as if a giant knife was being driven into the people. This gap shoot down from one end of the long street to the other, and no one dared crossed over the imaginary edges.

Down the centre of this groove rode a man on a horse. He wore impressive, metallic blue armour whose edges were lined with a golden orange material. Huge scarlet shoulder pads sat astride his neck, and a long light green cloak ran out behind him. His legs were covered in plates of a similar material and colour to that of his torso, and a chain mail belt with a bright silver buckle circled his waist. And from that hung a highly detailed scabbard, yet no weapon was sheathed within it. Instead, this man was riding through the crowd with one hand on the reigns of his mount and the other holding onto a vast broadsword, and he swung it about over his head in a impressive display. The blade of the weapon itself was even aglow with something strange and unnatural. Dark red flames seemed to burn along its surface which made the man's swordplay even more spectacular.

His general appearance was far from impeccable though. Stains of mud and dirt ran up from the soles of his boots and onto his legs. Splattering of a red liquid, dried and crusty, had been splattered over his chest plate and back. And his face, despite being hidden behind a deep mound of stubble and a long mane of greasy black hair, was covered, with soot and smoke. These signs of war and struggle were a great addition to his already mighty figure, yet they seemed almost strategically placed.

As he moved down the centre of the divide, the people cheered and screamed, and he seemed to revel in their reaction. To each spectator, the moment at which the man passed in front of them was when the noise was at its greatest, shooting up into the realms of wild excitement. If the din of the crowd before the man arrived was deafening, the shrill blasts and shrieks as he passed were positively unbearable. And yet the man rode on. Flowers such as Peacebloom were flung in his path and make-shift confetti was launched high into the air and descended like slow flakes onto their intended recipient.

From a window, high about the pavement and one district away, sat a tall gangly figure, its head turned towards the tiny specks of people who had transformed the streets below into a multicoloured torrent of bodies. The figure was sat cross-legged on the sill, and was watching with great curiosity as the man passed in and out of sight, as he made his way through the streets, a continuous view being obstructed by the numerous roof tops and chimneys of Stormwind's trade district. The windowed watcher stirred but never took her eyes of the activity below. The figure was a Night Elf. A simple buff coloured robe hung loosely from her shoulders with a plain white blouse poking out from underneath, and her feet were covered by thick leather strapped boots. Her hair reached all the way down her back, frizzled outwards as it dropped, and was a deep turquoise in hue.

Soorei was her name, and she was most intrigued by the humans swelling below, having watched from the moment the first group of people arrived a few hours earlier to the present display of mad celebrations. She was sat on the sill of a window, whose room was small but appeared very functional. A bookcase with few books clung against one wall, with nothing on the opposite side and a desk sat in the gloom at the part of the room that opposed the window. The door burst open and a short man with thinning hair combed back over his scalp, came striding in. He caught sight of the elf in the corner of his eye and jumped.

"Agh!" he yelped, clutching onto his chest with fright.

"I was watching the procession." She explained in a long, deep drawl. The short man huffed to himself and sat at the desk, and lit a candle. Soorei turned back to the street celebrations.

"Who is he?" she asked the man, who was busy reordering a pile of papers.

"Uh? Oh, wait a minute" he pulled out a sheet of folded paper from his back pocket. He opened up and began reading.

"Maraseth, Destroyer of harpies, whelps and pirates, Beheader of Rathorian the Demon…"

"I mean who_ is _he?" Soorei interrupted. The small man looked up at the elf and threw the flyer away.

"Oh, just a Sergent. From the 23rd infantry, I believe. He'll go back into circulation tomorrow."

This was something Stormwind did at times of great public depression. True heros and heroines where few and far between, and confidence and moral would often run dry. So, just as the roads were repaired if broken and the street lights were kept burning every night, so do the authorities provide the people with hope, no matter how fake and fraudulent it may be. It was justified as a service to the people, and at the expense of tax payer. Usually, a trusted officer if plucked from his standard duty, given a grand horse from private stables and armour from storage, roughed up a little and sent through the streets, and the people do the rest. The phoney hero is then given a bag of gold pieces and allowed two weeks vacation for his silence, and is for a brief time, worshipped as a true defender of the people.

It was a relatively cheap way of soothing the collective nerves of the population, and, in the long run, did no real harm. A side benefit after such events are a sudden rise in army recruitment and the armed forces gains another hundred or so young eager soldiers to help swell its numbers and protect its interests. Geffry Aggum, the squat, balding man, who was now sitting at his desk, was responsible for having conjured up this propaganda exhibition. He long ago gave up organising it directly, however, and instead was content to let others plot and execute this moral boosting campaign.

Aggum's other duties were vague and uninteresting, inexplicable and dull. He was not employed by the City of Stormwind and yet work tirelessly for their needs. His knowledge of legal and political matters both at home and of lands far way was vast and still he knew nothing of any real interest. He could claim acquaintance with most of Stormwind's leaders, lawmakers and politicians, but had no friends. The corridors, stairwells, passageways and halls were constantly frequented by Aggum and still no one could ever say that he had seen him, unless they were specifically looking for him. His office was a tiny, forgotten room, at the top of a tight winding set of stairs that was entered at the end of a corridor no one ever used.

Soorei, was nothing quite as shrewd as Aggum but she did hold a fascination for his work and indeed all aspects of Stormwind. Unlike the rest of her people, the humans held a great curiosity for her. She liked this curious race, but it was not that she held anything in common with them, no Elf did, but their strange ways, quirks, ingenuity, tenacity, lies and occasional bolts of courage were something that she longed to study and experience.

She had found her way into Aggum's favour by helping him fend off any unwelcome Night Elf interference, something he despised doing. He suffered Soorei's questions and vaguely condescending manner because he could rely on her to resolve issues that he would not dare touch. The official Night Elf ambassador in Stormwind was quite unsuited to his needs, being that they were just, fair and truthful, where as his Elf was more than happy to indulge in a few lies and deceits.

"Right, I have to go again" Aggum said, glancing at his pocket watch. "I have to go see someone about something." He waddled off out the office, leaving the gangly elf to watch the one-man procession as it dribbled out of sight and the crowd evaporated.

* * *

><p>Carod's eyes widened as the vehicle which caged and carted him, rolled toward the huge walls that surrounded the vast city of Stormwind. The last mile of so leading up to it was almost impossible to traverse. Traders and mongers with tiny boxes of produce leapt out at them every metre or so. Caravans of great work horses blocked routes and tore up parts of the road. Swarms of peasants heaved back and forth along the road as if they were dust particles being sucked in and out by the breath of a mighty dragon. To make the traffic worse, Stormwind guards, for all their good intentions of controlling the flow, simply aided in the congestion and at one point brought nearly a mile of people, wagons and horses to a standstill.<p>

Being in a prison wagon and escorted by two guards and an officer, the general road users tried their best to clear the way, and Carod and the others finally reached the huge gates of Stormwind.

They stopped at the threshold and the driver gave his credentials, warrents and identifications to the guards that stood like teeth at the mouth of the city. The escorts and Marris did likewise, and after much checking and questions from the city guards, they were allowed to pass through the great open doorway. The entrance itself was a great arch that reached up to the height of the great forest trees and possessed two enormous doors that could be shut and locked during sieges and attacks. The wagon rolled through the city's entrance and soon was travelling over a wide stone road with deep drops on either side and huge statues of heroes decorating the flanks. It was an eye-opening sight for Carod. He had longed to see the city, just not from the confines of a prison cart. He watched the traders, travellers, adventurers and peasants fly by and marvelled at the suggested complexity of the social order of the city, all within the centuries old walls. The dwarf was fast asleep.

Carod's moment of wonder was short lived as the prison train eventually entered the trade district and was met with the leftovers of the adoring crowd. Still fired up from the returning "hero", their passion was immediately transformed into scour, anger and hate.

The coachman, having done these kinds of runs before and knew what to expect, reached behind his seat and pulled out a wooden bucket that had tiny, inch-wide slits cut into the side. He then placed it over his head and whipped his horses. The prison wagon raced away and flew down the street, towards the mass of fuming people. The cart's escorts immediately followed, attempting to maintain the same formation they had done over the entire journey. They raced down the cobbled road all with the exception of Marshal Marris who had stopped at the top of the street and watched the wagon and the soldiers recede from him. He watched from a distance as the cart veered from side to side, avoiding the claws of the people that had poised themselves at the edge of the road. The escorts positioned themselves between the wagon and the violent public, hoping to deflect their missiles and receiving a good pelting in the process. Marris could have rode up, flashing his rank and armour in order to quell the anger but he lacked the enthusiasm. Instead, he merely watched the cart skid around a corner with the two guards immediately galloping behind it. The long journey he took with them was awkward and uninteresting, and he was glad to see them back of them. He dug his feet into the horse and trotted off to the barracks.

It was unfortunate for Carod and the others that a hero's return had been celebrated just as they entered the city. For most cases, the citizens are rather indifferent to prisoners, all having seen one or two being marched through the streets on a regular basis. Yet the previous procession had riled them and tension was high. It was not that they had any real hatred for Carod or the Dwarf; they just love targets.

The fortified cart, a bruised driver and the two soldiers arrived at the magistrate's quarter and passed under an arch and into a small courtyard. A portcullis crashed down behind them and the two guards veered away and through a large pair of doors that led to the stables. These doors opened to let them through and then immediately slammed shut behind them. The resulting noise tried to echo up through the courtyard yet the air in there was tight and rigid, and the sound was weak and lacking.

For a moment, the driver, cart and prisoners were standing idle, awaiting for someone to greet them. The coachman grumbled and scratched the back of his neck. He was sweating from having to speed through the angry mob, and was in dire need of some ale. Eventually a great iron door swung open and a tall broad, hairless officer of the law came thundering through and walked up to the driver.

"Papers?" the officer requested. The driver coughed away a chunk of phlegm, and pulled out a crumpled collection of parchments from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it down to the large officer. Having glanced over the documents, the officer then produced a bunch of keys that hung at his waist. He unlocked the door to the cart and stood back. The walls of the courtyard were high and let in very little natural light, causing the inside of the cage to be extremely dark. The officer squinted in to the black prison wagon.

"Alright, out you come! One at a time."

A number of rustling and banging noises emanated from inside, but no one emerged.

"Out you come I said! One. At. A. Time!"

"Sorry" a small voice exclaimed "I am not fully mobile. Not in good shape."

The officer watched as a pair of legs slid out from the darkness and tried their best to find the footing below. After a few attempts, Carod finally flopped out, stumbling a bit and taking a few steps to the right of the cage door. He stood deadly still and tried to exhibit a look of innocence and compliance. The bear-sized officer eyed him up and down, then looked back at the cart.

"Now you."

Again there was no reply or movement.

"He might be asleep, I think, officer." Carod piped out.

The officer looked at Carod, looked back at the cart and then walked straight up to the entrance, reached into the darkness, grabbed hold of an ankle and pulled. A hairy mess of rags and fat plummeted to the ground, resulting in a loud slap of flesh on stone. The dwarf groaned, half because of pain and half due to having been woken up.

The driver whipped his horses and he and the cart disappeared through the large doors through which the escorts had disappeared, slightly scrapping the right side of the wagon against the wooden frame as he went. Upon passing through it, the doors instantly slammed shut, which again tried in vain to echo around the courtyard.

It was a dark place, all sides rising up over thirty metres and blocking out all sounds from the outside. Any noises of made by the mass of cityfolk or wind or birds were denied entrance into the yard and the only sound one could hear was water dripping from a drainpipe that hung over a wooden awning leaning out from one wall. It was a leak that forever seemed to be spitting out grey, murky water, whether it had been raining or not.

The officer led the two prisoners into the door he had emerged from, down a set of steep steps and into a long corridor along which ran tiny cramped cells. Both Carod and the dwarf were logged in and then marched past numerous other prisoners along the way. These inmates were obscured from view by poor lighting, and for the most part, were very quiet. An odd couple of heckles rang out from behind a few bars, but these were merely childish comments designed to undermine the confidence and moral of new prisoners. The dwarf ignored these but Carod was stung by a couple, not having been used to such inhospitable vibes.

Wanting to find out more about his situation, Carod engaged the officer just as he was being placed in a cramped cell at the far end of the corridor.

"What is happening tomorrow? An inquest?"

The officer knew nothing about Carod or his case, and had no care either.

"Breakfast tomorrow at eight" he replied, and locked the door. The dwarf was taken to the cell directly to Carod's right and hurled in. The officer announced the same information about breakfast to the dwarf, locked his door then strode off back down the walkway. Carod was once again incarcerated, and could do nothing except think about all that had happened to him, while the dwarf plumped up his thin mattress and lied down.

Carod did not know what his charges were or that he had even been accused of anything. He was offered no legal assistance or advice, and had not been allowed the opportunity to contact any friends or family. All he could do was sit there and take it. To the authorities, he was being detained while the evidence against him was being collected and refined (twisted) but in his innocence and perhaps naivety, Carod assumed he was merely helping them with their enquiries albeit in a long, overcomplicated and unnecessary way.

All charges, accusations and statements against Carod was being compiled and overseen by Duchamp, a well-respected inquisitor and on good terms with the legal officers and prosecutors of Stormwind. Her case was completely devoid of any real tangible evidence though and it seemed she was more devoted to establishing a perpetrator, regardless of their guilt, rather than discovering the actual truth. But people were blind to this and it was nobody's real fault that Carod was on the road to condemnation.

The system which had plucked him from the populace was sometimes too big and complex to monitor or regulate, and no one person had an overall picture of this subconscious corruption. And the people who worked the various limbs of this uncontrollable beast were simply doing what their jobs demanded of them, and yet they all had little knowledge of the system beyond their immediate duties. It also suffered from numerous and ill-thought out alterations. Devious lawyers, for example, had allowed some evil men and woman to walk free, who then subsequently continued to bring death and destruction onto innocent people, so the powers and influence that lawyers could use were dramatically diminished. Money and expenses were very tight too, squeezing out lengthy procedures and vital rules and observations, leaving behind only hastily deduced verdicts and a well of inexperienced judges and prosecutors. The system also appeared to echo public opinion in certain cases, condemning the accused regardless of lack of evidence. All these factors, caused by so much interference, ignorance and blindness, coupled with overzealous inquisitors and under qualified authorities, resulted in a farcical pantomime which had become a shadow of the great system of justice it had once been. Carod was doomed and didn't know it.

While he sat in his meagre cell, trying not to ruffle feathers and wearing a demeanour that was both inhostile and cooperative, Duchamp busied herself with amassing reports and items, all of which were utterly inconclusive and subjective. They would be ran through rhetorical speeches, colourfully descriptive, and subjected to the deliberation of a committee who were slaves to their fears.

And so Carod sat, patiently and nervous. His time in the mountains and the tower were brief but horrifying, and yet here he was, amongst his own people and still a prisoner. He assumed some big mistake had happened, that essential information about his innocence had gone astray and was due to reveal itself shortly. There was an great element of frustration about this situation for Carod, and he was confused as to why he had received no information or even legal advice. But all the while, he tried his best not to rock the boat, to prove he was a good citizen, something he always done whenever he had an encounter with an officer of the law, regardless of whether he had anything to hide.

Duchamp took her time in fortifying her case and Carod waited in his cell under the courtyard at the magistrate in Stormwind city for over a week. For the first few days, he had constantly pestered the burly officer whenever he passed if he had any news or information but was always ignored. The old woman who brought the grey, lumpy porridge at breakfast ignored him even more, even though he had only asked her out of desperation. His frustration began to override his default pacifism, and any sense of remaining cool was shrinking rapidly. After five days of his initial incarceration, he gave up on remaining quiet and instead began shouting from his bars. This would usually last until he either grew tired, the guards flew at him and struck the bars hard with their clubs, or a fellow prisoner launched a well-aimed projectile at him from their cell. Either way, he was falling further into a dark and tangled mess.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter twelve**

A skewed and warped door hung on a pair of rusty, rotten hinges. It sat deep within a stone frame that the door was not made for, and was lit by a tiny candle planted in a small crevasse in the wall opposite. The door and the candle were not far apart, only separated by a metre or so of stone flooring and to either side of the candle and door stood a veil of darkness. Above them, a deformed, sinking ceiling, bent through subsidence and time, with deep, jagged cracks that were emitting a foul, green sludge. The door opened and Aggum stepped out and closed it behind him. He pulled out a key and inserted it into the feeble lock that was hanging precariously onto the doors rim, and he turned it. He then slipped the key back into his pocket and picking up the candle from the gap in the wall opposite, began to walk. The door was located down a dark subterranean passageway, that was both extremely long and unforgiving.

The stones and its style suggested it was probably centuries old and most likely completely forgotten by all. Aggum strutted down the dark path, the darkness running away from him in front but pursing him from the rear. He twisted and turned up and down passageways and through abandoned cavernous halls and until he reach a spiral staircase. He ascended and emerged on one of Stormwind's mighty ramparts, a colossal battlement over looking one of the tributaries of the city's great canal. It was a remote part of Stormwind and only accessible by those who could persuade the guards to let them through and who also knew the way. Aggum stood over the greeny-brown liquid of the canal. He took the key out of his pocket and without thinking twice, threw it into the water.

"Ah, there you are!" A voice called. Aggum slowly turned (for he knew who it was) and saw Mathias Shaw approaching from another door. Shaw was a short man but his face read as one twice his height. A well kempt beard and full head of red hair would have thrown Aggum thinning dome into shame, had he any respect for his outward appearance. Like Aggum, Shaw was well versed in secrets and deception, yet unlike Aggum, he executed his business in the name of military might, defensive strategies, and knowing enemy movements. Aggum on the other hand merely concerned himself with things he could manipulate and bend. Both distrusted the other, having different motivations for their actions but these two men were loyal to their kingdom and simply expressed this devotion in different ways. They were two sides of the same coin and in order to accomplish what they wanted, they needed each other, but neither wanting to admit it.

"What have you been up to?" asked Shaw. This was something he always asked of Aggum. And Aggum replied in the same way he had always done.

"Nothing."

"Another beautiful day." exclaimed Shaw. It was overcast and beginning to spit with rain.

"You need anything? "Aggum enquired.

"Yes. The same as before. Five this time."

Aggum exploded.

"Five? Three were tough, and now you want five?"

"I would ask if it wasn't essential. Things are getting worse out there."

Aggum looked out across to the other side of the canal and to rather dull looking building whose windows had been smashed and had remained unoccupied for years.

"It will take time." He said reluctantly.

"Thank you. I give you the details as soon as I obtain them." And with that Shaw turned and exited the balcony. And that was as much as they dared to convey to each other, keeping it simple, keeping it short.

Shaw's line of work was overseeing the undersee-ers. Installing and inserting his men and woman into positions and workplaces across the continent, acquiring strategically beneficial domiciles and buildings, rehousing informants, buying information, falsifying documents, clauses and deeds, and generally rearranging the lives of the general folk so Shaw and his people can move undetected was all part of his job. And this always caused Aggum a great headache. Helping Shaw make these things happen was relatively easy but covering the paper trail was a different matter.

The business Shaw ran was much simpler many years ago, but now, something beastly was afoot, something foul was rising in the belly of the world and was on the brink of spilling out. But wasn't it always? One always knew that rhetoric and public support were your best powers when demanding money and supplies, ensuring that the little resources they had got sent to the most needy areas. But Shaw was running a secret militia, operating on the outskirts of public knowledge. He and his people did good work, but now his needs were getting greater, and as they grew, Aggum felt the edges of his powers and abilities begin to crumble.

Aggum did not remain for long on the battlement (he had no time for romantic pondering) and exited through the door, once he had given enough time for Shaw disappear from the corridors.

* * *

><p>On the morning of the ninth day of being held at Stormwind, having been accused of conspiracy and treason (charges he was still ignorant of), Carod was visited by the broad shouldered officer. The cell door was unlocked and without a word, was pushed along the corridor and up the stairs, through the thick, iron door and out into the courtyard. There, waiting for him was a wide-eyed, spindly man, no more than thirty years of age. His neck was long and he displayed a mighty row of teeth that always looked as if he was going to burst out laughing.<p>

The iron door behind Carod was slammed shut and he was left alone with the skinny human apparition.

"You are Carod Osmund, are you not?" he scrawny figure asked through his large teeth.

"Yes. Oh, thank you! Look, I think there has been a terrible mistake. I seemed to have brought here without any…"

The thin stranger waved his flat, even spindlier hands in front of him.

"You don't understand. I have no interest in your case."

The excitement that had peaked so quickly in Carod's chest slowly fell back down and turned into mush. The stranger continued.

"I am here to offer a little proposal. We need some help and if you cooperate, we can see that your sentence regarding your charges is reduced or reconsidered."

Carod froze for a second.

"What charges?" he yelled. "Please, can you help me? I don't know what is going on here. Please…"

The spindly man raised his hand again.

"Please consider this offer." He said "It will help in the long run. But please remember, not a word of this to anyone, or any leniency will be revoked, and you will be back to square one. Understand?"

Carods head was spinning. It was the first time he had been aware that any charges had been brought against him. The terror and unparalleled fear that had frozen his body when he was held captive by the crazy warlock came flooding back, filling every inch of his being. It felt like a vile enemy posing as a close friend. He instantly recognised the sensation but wanted it dispelled immediately.

"We will give you a day to think about accepting it, and I suggest you do."

And with that, the stranger turned and strode over to the stable doors, which opened automatically and he passed through. As it shut, the iron door that led down to the cells was opened and the large officer emerged, and Carod was brought back to his barred recess. He made no resistance and let out no noise.

Charges? He thought to himself.

That night, he laid on his back in the darkness and simply repeated the word over and over again, like an incantation, waiting for an answer to appear. Being held prisoner by a great sorcerer or cast into a prison by his own people were now one and the same. The two experiences were now indistinguishable from each other, and the former merged seamlessly with the later, creating one cruel monster. After he had escaped from the tower and arrived back in Lakeshire, he was blessed with relief, comfort and society. But those things were now dwarfed in comparison to his other experiences like grotesque, demonic bookends flanking a tiny speck of hope.

The next morning arrived and Carod had not slept. He was again brought outside to talk to the stranger and again was asked if he would help in return for leniency. Carod, now a zombie, personality and thought having vacated his mind, agreed. And he was taken back to confinement, where he sat and did nothing.

Later that day, as the sun was dipping further into the horizon, Carod was once again taken from his cell and led into the courtyard. It was only late afternoon, yet the shape and depth of the yard let no light in, and was dark. The stranger waited in one corner, with a torch, and Carod was taken over to him. The officer and the thin man exchanged no words, yet they nodded and traded glances as if they had met many times before. Carod's chains were then removed, and he would have delighted in the removal of such bonds were it not for his current condition. The large officer walked away, swinging the chains as he went, and disappeared through the iron doorway.

"Let's go." The stranger said, and he made his way over to the stable door. Once again, they swung open magically and the stranger stepped through, only to reenter the courtyard and grab an unresponsive Carod by his arm and dragged him behind.

They entered the stables, a large U-shaped affair, and passed through one particular enclosure and to a small door in the back wall. After entering this, they made their way down a tight wooden corridor, peppered with straw and webs and up what seemed like an endless metal spiral stair case. At the top, a tiny hatch in the wall was flung open, giving way onto a magnificent but derelict stone gallery. Gigantic wide arches ran down one side, allowing the afternoon sun to cast in its rays. The view through these openings was one of the rooftops of the Old Town, an uneven, scrawny mess of slate and chimneys, and totally devoid of form or order. The falling sun illuminated the rising smoke, obscuring the horizon and gave the impression of a never-ending sea of roofs. Carod was almost stirred from his immobilising despair by the impressive vista but was soon alleviated from this feeling when the two men entered another tiny door and into a foul-smelling, window less hall.

The rest of the journey was largely forgettable for Carod. Had he been fully sentient and not moping about in the pools of his own misfortune, he might have been able to recall his steps, even though the vast number of twists and turns through abandoned and derelict rooms would have been a challenge to recollect.

They stepped into an empty misshapen room. There was a large gap in one wall where a window had fallen out and there were only two doors, one through which they entered and another through which the mysterious man briefly exited, after instructing Carod to remain put. The wind howled gently outside and seemed more content with drawing air out of the room then sending some in. A banging sound echoed from beyond the door, and it was eventually kicked open by the slender man, who was awkwardly carrying a small wooden desk. One edge of its surface was resting on the man's belt, whilst the other was being held onto by his outstretched arm. It did not appear particularly heavy, yet the stranger was having to bend his back quite a bit in order to keep himself balanced and provide a suitable counterweight for the desk.

The strange Y formation shuffled into the small room, and once he arrived in the centre, dropped the desk on the hard stone floor. It was not placed perpendicular to any of the room's walls, mainly because the stranger couldn't care less about its position but also because the room was such an odd shape. The gaunt man disappeared through the door again and reemerged with a stool, and placed it down in much the same manner as he had done with the table. He disappeared again, this time closing the door behind him.

Carod stood, looking at the desk and stool. He then turned on the spot, towards the open hole in the wall. Featureless buildings and ramparts laid opposite, consisting of dull grey bricks that turned green the closer they got to the dirty torrent of canal water below. He hobbled over to the opening, and peered over the edge. A drop of forty metres descended below him, and he was suddenly reminded of his time in the mountains. Ambitions of escape entered his mind. He would leap out, land in the water, escape the city and go back home. All he wanted was to continue with his life as it was before. Return to his home and start decorating, return to his job and love it, find a woman and marry her. If only he could just get out of this situation.

The clouds that flew high over the city were dull and gloomy, and the colourless brickwork of the buildings opposite seemed to merge with, or at least ape, the sky above. The stench of the canal rose with the wind and Carod was slapped in the face as tiny beads of rain began whip around the air. He glanced down again at the drop and the thought of escape, at least by this method, was forgotten. Maybe it will all sort itself out, he kept telling himself.

The door opened again and the skinny man walked back in, carrying papers and a wooden box.

"Sit." He said.

Carod ambled over to the chair and sat down, still stuck in his mournful daze.

"You are a notary, yes?" the man asked

"Yes." Replied Carod, automatically.

"And you have agreed to help us in exchange for leniency on your sentence?"

Carod looked up at the man.

"Yes."

"Good. Listen carefully. You will copy these documents here, altering the details where I have written them, then…

"What am I being charged with?" Carod blurted out.

"… produce these licenses for the following people… "

"No one is telling me anything"

"We need this particular document copied and the following signature replacing the existing one,…"

"If you can just get someone to see me…"

"…then copy these deeds…"

"…a lawyer…"

"… and replace…"

"…anybody, please!"

"I haven't got time for this!" The skinny man yelled. He then drew up to Carod, leaning over the desk as he did.

"We merely need some work from you. We don't care about your situation. Things can be a lot worse for you if you do not help us."

"But I don't know why I am here. There has been a terrible error somewhere."

The stranger didn't answer. He pulled away from Carod, and stood impatiently on the other side of the desk.

"So," the man continued, "you understand what we need from you?"

"Just tell me what my charges are!"

The stranger placed the documents down on the desk, and began to reiterate the instructions. Carod instantly knew he was never going to obtain any information from this stranger and slouched down on his seat.

As the stranger reexplained each task, Carod nodded blankly. He logged down the instructions given to him in his head (he was told that no written instructions were available) and prepared himself to carry them out. It was mysterious work to say the least, but it got him out of his cell, albeit into a tiny, draughty room.

"Who are you?" Carod asked, having opened the box and extracted a quill and some ink.

"Not important" said the stranger, who moved over to the corner, away from the window and leant up against the two walls. His frame was so light that he more resembled someone hanging rather than someone distributing their weight against a surface. And so he remained, eyes fixed on Carod, devoid of any personal emotion and not reacting to the slightest bit to the cold conditions of the room.

Carod knew that he was being scrutinised and hawked over. He began to carry out the first of his tasks. He had not picked up a quill for over three weeks, and his lingering injuries on his left arm were not helping, so when he ruined four pieces of parchment within two minutes, the stranger began to rub his brow with worry. After a while though, Carod got back his skills, and finally managed to produce something that could be vaguely passable.

"They don't have to be perfect, just believable." Said the stranger, and as a shrill breeze shook the room, he broke out of his stance and walked towards the original door of the room and locked it with a key that he produced from his waistcoat pocket. He then strode over to the other door, stopped and turned around to face Carod.

"I will be back later. I have other things to do." He said. "These doors will be locked, and you won't survive the drop so don't think about jumping out." And with that, he walked through the door, closing it behind him followed by the clanking sound of a key being turned. Carod was alone, once again. Now that he had been told that the drop outside the window was not advisable, he thought about it more. But he had had enough of falls, injuries and running away, and was in fact content to merely have a quill back in his hand.

After half an hour of re-establishing his hand-eye coordination, Carod 's skills soon came flooding back, and the work flowed. He followed precisely the instructions given to him (or at least as best as he could remember), producing accurately forged ledgers, altered deeds and fake licenses, if not entirely flawless.

"Leave it there." The stranger announced as he reentered the room two hours later. "You will continue this tomorrow."

Carod was startled by his entrance, being so engrossed in this activity as he was that he failed to hear the key turning in the lock.

"And it's nice to see that you didn't jump either."

"I will do all of this for you, if you can just tell me on what charge have been brought against me and what I can do about." Carod said. His proposal to the stranger was genuine and also a surprise to him. He was beginning to regain his meticulous thought processes again.

"You don't want a reduced sentence?" Said the man, picking up the papers and examining the results.

"I just need help."

"You're being serious?"

"Yes. I just need information. I have no idea why I am here."

"You must know why you are here. How can you not know? You did the crime."

"I haven't done anything. Please, can you find out what is going on?"

"You're claiming innocence _and _ignorance? Well, I am more than happy to give you information in exchange for some work. I will tell you once you have done what we have asked of you."

"But you have seen my accusations?"

"Briefly. But I read hundreds of papers and documents every day. I don't retain every single detail."

"You don't remember?"

"No. It's time you went back to your cell anyway."

The stranger tucked the fake documents and papers into his jacket pockets, and led Carod back down the winding labyrinth of halls and stairs, and finally back to the courtyard, where he made a quick exit. The large warden once again appeared, and took Carod back to his cell.

* * *

><p>The next day, around the same time, Carod was again brought to the small room to continue with more falsifying of papers. A slither of hope dwindled inside of Carod, partly because he knew some form of coherence about his situation was on the way, and partly because he was back doing something he knew he was good at, despite the possible illegality of it all. The second day was much like the first, with the stranger observing for the first five minutes then vacating the room once Carod was effortlessly scribbling away. Once he had finished the pile of work set that day, he was led back to the cells. He was blessed with a third day of being asked to fulfil theses suspicious tasks, the first few minutes started with him sitting quietly alone in the windowless room. A gaggle of muffle shouts passed through the second door, causing Carod some great concern as they grew louder and closer. The door flung open and the tiny figure of Aggum, followed the slender stranger flew in.<p>

"I understand that you requested that your reward for helping us is information concerning your case, is that right?" Aggum said, his thinning hair flying freely in the wind. Carod was taken aback by the unfamiliar face of Aggum lurching at him so unexpectedly.

"Well, information and help."

"Do you really want this to be the case? You are being accused for something very serious, and this will be reflected in your punishment. You might want to reserve your rewards for that."

Carod almost jumped at Aggum.

"I will do any work for you! I will forge anything you like, fake any licenses, er… forge any deed or ledger. I could maybe work for you, full time. If you can just prove to people that I this is all a huge mistake. I am a victim."

"That is a little beyond my power. I have many fingers in many pies, but the criminal courts and its judges and prosecutors are beyond my control, I am sorry to say. It is not a very fair system, and I have seen many a people crushed under its incompetence. I have influence in the prisons though, in the labour camps and so on. "

"But this needs to be sorted out now, before I get sentenced. Can you not do anything to help?"

"Never have done before. Don't see why I should now."

"Please."

"Sorry. Maybe your prosecutor will fail to convince the judges. Perhaps the evidence against you is lacking or circumstantial."

"Its Duchamp, sir." Said the stranger, who was leaning up against the door post.

Aggum roared with laughter, his tiny beetle-body and almost spherical head, bobbed up and down with each convulsion.

"Hahaha! Well, I am sorry to say that you destiny is kind of sealed with that one. I can only promise an ever so slightly softer sentence. Unfortunately, having those charges against you and such a ridiculous inquisitor at your heels, there is not much I can do."

"You know her?" Carod asked

"Only by reputation. She's bull-headed, adamant and utterly nonnegotiable."

"Can you not have a word with her?"

"About what?"

"About my being here?"

"There is nothing I can do. Incidentally, I understand that you also claim you have no idea what your charges are?"

"No! That's what I have been trying to tell you people."

"You are mainly being charged with conspiring with known enemies of Stormwind and treason."

After delivering Carod's charges in the manner of a judge's verdict, Aggum left the room, leaving the thin stranger to produce the next batch of work to be forged. Completely despondent and drained of life, Carod, mechanically fulfilled his duties and as the dau grew to a close, he was again led back to his cells. He was not called for the next day.

* * *

><p>Another week passed and Carod did not hear from the mysterious stranger or Aggum again during that time. Instead, he had to endure all that the detention cells had to offer. Poor, low quality mush wrongly referred to as food, continuous shouting from newly incarcerated prisoners, a bizarre stench that wafted in and out of each cell as if doing rounds and the unbreakable, uncontrollable boredom. It was this more than anything that Carod hated, beyond the ever present torment of his demise.<p>

But on top of all these, riding high like some vile horseman, was the knowledge that he was now suspected of being a traitor. For so long, he assumed that he was merely an unfortunate citizen, an unmistakable victim of powers beyond his control, having been subjected to the unpredictable and wild. But now, though he was still unfortunate victim, it was due to other people's incompetence and their blind zealousness. He screamed and protested, knowing full well the truth was in sight, yet as time passed and the more theories and vague evidence Duchamp collected, all hope he ever had of holding high his flag of his innocence for all to see was slowly slipping away.

But why was no one listening? Was everybody just completely dumb or ignorant? Or had the system been utterly corrupted? Carod feared all these ideas, suspecting the machine through which he was now being processed was uncontrollable, unreasonable and inept. He had once thought that a great error had occurred when he had been initially imprisoned and that soon, someone would notice the mistake. But no longer did he hold these hopes. He now knew exactly where he was. In another cell and left to the whim of a faceless, corrupted power.

A whole week had passed after his encounter with Aggum in the small windowless room and he awoke one morning to find the large warden standing over him. As Carod tried to focus his bleary eyes, the officer grabbed his arm and pulled him from his cot, half falling onto the damp stone floor as a result. Carod attempted to get to his feet as he was yanked across his cell and thrown through the open door. With a burley hand firmly grasped to Carod's shoulder, the poor prisoner was marched down the corridor, up the steps, through the large iron door and hastily brought out to the thin stranger who was waiting for him in the courtyard. The stranger was busy biting his nails and was looking extremely anxious, and at one point was murmuring erratically to himself.

Upon seeing Carod's appearance in the courtyard, the skinny man beckoned him to follow, and the two exited through the stable doors, just as they had done before.

Carod was vaguely ecstatic about this. He imagined that some strings had been pulled and he was now on the road to freedom. He imagined that he would be brought back to the room in order to have the situation explained, sorted or resolved. Yet, as they passed through the various walkways and halls, there was a certain amount of haste and heightened necessity about it.

The skinny man burst through the door and into the familiar small room, with an increasingly baffled Carod close behind. The stranger locked the door behind them and said:-

"Wait here." And he disappeared through the other exit.

A few moments later, Aggum came storming in with the skinny stranger close behind. Aggum stood a few feet away from Carod, arms folded and wearing a heavy frown that seemed adamant on crushing his eyes.

"What to do with you? What to do?" Aggum said.

"Uh?" mumbled Carod, confused.

"I think we may have been rumbled."

"What?"

"It turns out your little handiwork has been identified. Someone from Lakeshire recognised your handwriting on one the documents you worked on and alerted Duchamp. She will be here tomorrow, and she will be wanting to ask you questions about this. And I fear her methods of extracting the truth will not be particularly pleasant."

"I don't understand."

Aggum sighed.

"You are a prisoner and therefore should not be indulging in official paperwork of any kind, especially as you should now be incarcerated, isolated. You understand? Now, I could put you back in your cell, where Duchamp will interrogate you for answers, and regardless of how much you withhold, everyone breaks in the end. You will incriminate the warden, my friend here, me and my by extension, the entire system that I have worked so hard to create. I will not let that happen. Another option is to fake your suicide…"

Upon hearing those last words, Carod suddenly made for the hole in the wall. It was purely an instinctive and involuntary reaction to the thought that he could be executed. And his escape plan might have worked, had it not been for the fact that crude iron bars had recently been bolted to the window frame. He ran into them and bounced back into the floor.

"We had them installed this morning. A disappearance does not look good on our records, and I know that the prison warden would not take the blame for it. Nor, as it happens, is he willing to let one of his prisoners die in their cells, be it suicide or otherwise. Questions get raised, people get curious and the ever watchful eyes of the High Inquisitors are drawn close to our operation. That too out of the question."

Carod, was lying on his side, rubbing his jaw. He had pretty much ignored all of what Aggum had said, yet he did manage to receive the message subliminally.

"So?" Carod said, running his finger across his hind teeth.

"So… we will plan a break out. Quick, easy, blameless, you get freedom and we rid ourselves of any traces. They will be looking for you out there and not investigating us in here."

"I don't understand. You're gonna break me out of here?"

"No. Morganth is."

"Morganth?"

"Yes. You are charged with conspiring with him."

"I wasn't!"

"Hmm, so you claim. Yet he is the perfect one to blame this on. Our friendly warden is more than up for it. A humble prison officer is no match for a sorcerer such as he. All attention will be focused on finding you, hunting you down. And that will hopefully direct attention away from our business."

"But I am not conspiring with him though! This will make me look as if I am."

"Well, regardless of what you say, I really just want to get rid of you. I didn't want to have to resort to killing. That just causes problems for us all. It is your chance to escape. You don't really have an option."

Carod, who was still lying on the cold floor, stared out of the window, and to the sky beyond.

"Where will I go?"

"Not my business. Just don't go home. You can never go home, understand?"

Carod didn't reply. He simply stared out of the window.

"I take that a 'yes'." Aggum turned to his skinny associate. "Take him back to the cells."

The slender stranger walked over to Carod and picked him up by the arm and walked him towards the door that led to the maze and down to the cells. Aggum had already left the room, and was taking corners sharply and dashing down corridors and halls.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter thirteen**

Carod had been returned to his cell. His head was empty. No thoughts flowed, no fears, no worries and no anxieties. He forgot all about his past and present condition, and to regard the future was such a pointless abstract process. He was once again a hollow skeleton, human on the outside, a dead soul on the inside. He was not informed in detail about this crazy plan, mainly as nobody had actually planned anything up until that point.

Duchamp was riding hard through the night to reach Stormwind. It was not so much a matter of national security for her, more that she knew something foul was happening within the prison system, a system she trusted. Aggum knew that the righteous beliefs that Duchamp so lovingly clung to would in no way merge with his somewhat darker methods, and as such did all he could to keep the world of judges and prosecutors as far away from his world of deception and intrigue as possible. If keeping his operations secret meant breaking out a prisoner, then this was something he more than prepared to do.

And so, as the clandestine wheels were set in motion, Carod sat quietly in his cell. He thought about quills and paper. He thought about the tavern in Lakeshire and his friends. He thought about the lumpy, grey porridge that was delivered to him every morning. These things were mundane and ordinary, yet he now desired to experience these things everyday for the rest of his life. No running away, no fighting, no hiding, just simple, humble things for a simple, quiet life. It was a mental haven for him, creating inner murals depicting small town life that he mulled and longed over. He was content to be trapped in this vortex, beaming smiles as he pictured friends and a family. A modest house would be bought in Lakeshire, where he and everyone he ever liked or loved would sit and eat lumpy, grey porridge for 100 years.

Carod sat motionless for the whole day, perched on the edge of his bed, thinking about an imaginary future. Time passed and yet he was not aware of it. He was not aware that night was now falling, and he had completely ignored the bowl of rice that had been placed into his cell for his dinner.

The warden came strolling past and looked into Carod's cell. Upon seeing the wardens face, Carod was brought back into reality and knew something was about to happen. The warden walked on.

Hours passed by yet nothing even resembling a breakout was occurring. The general sound of the cells grew quiet as each prisoner went to bed, with only the odd cough to break the silence. Carod remained sat on the edge of his bed, although now, the warm thoughts he had indulged earlier in were now tightly locked away in the back of his mind. He glanced around his room, then out through the bars.

Another hour passed. He stood up and walked over to the door. Positioning his head, he looked down as far as he could one end of the corridor, then turned to gauge the opposing side. All was still. He returned to his bed and sat back down.

An almighty crashing sound then bellowed through the prison. He stood up and ran back to the bars, clinging tightly to the metal rods. The loud noise was close, but not in his cell. He scanned the gloomy corridor. In the faint light, he noticed rolls of dust emanating from the cell to his left. This nightly interruption had awoken all the other prisoners and one by one, they flew to their respective bars and began calling out and looking around.

Carod had no doubt that whatever caused this crash was meant for him, yet a whole minute went by before anything else happened. Suddenly, a small blast blew its way through the wall that joined Carod's cell to the one on his left. After the dust cleared, a cloaked figure staggered through the opening, coughing from the tiny specs of debris that was filling up the room.

By now the collective mood of the prisons inhabitant was reaching boiling point. Some were shouting for the guards at the top of their voices, and those that could see this cloaked figure were being begged to be set free themselves.

The mysterious figure stood upright in the poorly lit cell, swirls of dust encompassing his feet.

"Carod!" the figure said in a loud but slightly affected tone.

Carod did not answer.

"Good," he continued. "We must away, back to the tower." He spoke even louder this time, just enough to peak over the shouts and calls of the other inmates.

Carod stood deadly still. He knew there was no turning back now. He was also fully aware that the figure standing before him was not Morganth but a blatant imposter. The manner in which he spoke in order to ensure the other prisoners could hear was utterly ludicrous. It was just so farcical, so inept. And it was the people who had organised this breakout that he was to put his trust into to. But what if he refused to go? What if he stood his ground? Would they have to kill him?

The warden eventually came running down the corridor and stopped exactly outside Carod's cell.

"What's going on in there?" he yelled, feigning poor eyesight in the dark and dusty environment. The cloaked figure turned and faced the warden, his features still obscured in the weak light. For a few seconds, no one moved, with the mysterious intruder appearing to mull over the warden. The warden remained silent. It was as if they were all in a play whose next line had been completely forgotten. Then the dark figure brought his right hand up from under his cloak and pointed at the warden. The officer gulped and a few seconds later the cloaked figure shot out a jagged wave of vile purple light which half struck the metal doors of the cell and half wrapping around the wardens body. The afflicted officer screamed and fell to the ground in spasms, curling up into a ball as he did.

"Let's go." The mysterious man said. Carod, who by now was utterly relenting and was more than content to let fate cast him about, was in the process of approaching the figure. But as he was about to pass through the small hole, the cloaked man grabbed hold of Carod's shoulder and a putrid, toxic green flash pulsed through his body, sending Carod to his knees. He vomited from this intrusive, nauseous sensation, and grew weak from its effects. The figure then took Carod by the scruff of his neck and threw him through the opening. Aggum was so adamant that Carod should be removed from those cells that those involved were ordered to extract him in the easiest way possible, regardless of whether or not Carod was willing to cooperate. A very slight curse had been placed on him, making it hard for him to physically resist all pushes and pulls.

After falling into the next cell, Carod slowly looked around at the destruction from the initial blast. One unconscious prisoner was lying by the door with a crowd of rubble and stone around him. The cloaked figure soon climbed through the hole behind Carod and once again grabbed hold of his collar, this time throwing him sideways and into the original opening.

It was a great chasm in the wall, stretching through the yards of thick surrounding earth. This escape route had seemed to have been dug out by some huge creature; deep claw marks etched the floor, sides and roof.

Still feeling ill from the effects of the curse, Carod was led through this tight, narrow route by the figure like a disobedient dog on a leash, not stopping, not hesitating. It was pitch black, yet the mysterious man knew his way.

The soon came to a gradient of loose earth that rose up and into the open air. Light shone into this exit from a full moon, and after ascending this slope, they found themselves on a small path of slabs, with great arches stretching away from them on the left with the black waters of the canal beyond that. To the right of the path was a vast wall and both this and the arches rose up to form a ceiling the same width as the floor below. The place was overrun with weeds, and seemed to have been abandoned for years, with chunks of fallen masonry and discarded waste dumped behind each arch's pillar.

The cloaked figure turned around and made a quick descent back into the tunnel. A bright flash came from the darkness, followed by a great rumbling sound as the escape route was sealed. The figure came scrambling back up the slope, being closely followed by more plumes of dust.

"This way!" he said, and the two trotted away from the tunnel opening and along under the arches. At no point was a torch used, and despite the moon shining brightly, the fugitive and his rescuer blindly wound their way through a number of dark cloisters, passageways and back roads. Off in the distance, the sound of alarm bells was heard.

They soon happened upon one of the city's defensive ramparts. Beyond the low stone wall, was a dark grey swaying horizon that rustled and hissed. It was the forest that surrounded the city, whose tops were lit by a falling moon with a thick black world that swam below. The two men were level with the tree tops and the drop over the other side to the forest floor was at least thirty feet. Carod stared in the faint light, wondering how they were going to get down, and he turned round to face his false rescuer. The moonlight illuminated the face that had been hidden until now. Carod was not afforded to opportunity to comprehend these features as the mysterious figure suddenly dragged Carod along the length of the battlement by his arm.

The entire stretch of the rampart was deserted of guards, whether intentionally or not, Carod didn't know. As such, they were able to creep along it unchallenged, stooping low to avoid detection purely as a precaution. The mysterious figure soon stopped and he glanced over the parapet, gloved hands gripping onto the great stone between two huge merlons. Carod could only stand and watch as the mysterious man scanned the sky above, their immediate surroundings and the drop beyond the parapet. Carod was then grabbed and flung on top of the crenel. He knew that was to be thrown over the edge but was still too weak to resist from the curse with which he had been administered. He desperately tried to cling to the upright merlons either side of him, as the cloaked figure attempted to push over the edge and into the wild, black foliage below.

"Stop messing about! Let go!" The cloaked figure cried. Carod did not let go. Having endured a couple of hard falls recently, his body was not yet prepared for another one. The man, who by now was getting desperate, punched Carod's gripped fingers and the unfortunate escapee was now free from purchase. He was rolled over and eventually slid off.

His limp body crashed through the branches of the tree immediately below him and eventually landed onto the soft mud. The impact knocked the wind out of him, but due to his slightly incapacitated nature, the fall was considerably less painful than he had expected. Still fighting for breath and weak from the curse, he stood up as best he could and craned his neck to gauge the top of the wall. The fake Morganth was not visible in the darkness, yet Carod stood and waited for him. He was unclear as to whether this man was to join him in the rest of his escape, and after five minutes of waiting, he eventually decided to head off into the woods. He glared fiercely into the night, withheld a convulsion and sprang away into the darkness.

The feeling of loneliness, danger and despair was something to which he was now growing accustomed, yet he relished not a single moment. Once again, he was limping through the wilderness, an escapee, a fugitive. Why had this have to happen to him? Where would he go? Aggum didn't care. As long as he wasn't around to testify against or incriminate his people, Aggum was satisfied.

Carod was now someone who had now broken free from prison. His fleeing alone was enough to prove his guilt (at least for Duchamp), and despite his pleas of innocence, he would no doubt be executed on the spot, with no trial or court, were he to be discovered, as both a traitor and an escapee.

He crept through the darkness, the half-illuminated walls of Stormwind slowly fading from sight. The sound of the alarm bells became muddied as the number of thick, dense treetops grew between him and the city, and yet strange, new now now rang out in the darkness to replace them. Carod was alone again. His friends dead, branded a traitor and now lost in a dark, distant forest in the middle of the night, fleeing from those who would forever regard him as a something to be destroyed. The life he once knew, regardless of how pointless and dull he viewed it, was now dead and buried, unresurrectable and forgotten. What was ahead for him, he did not know.

After an hour of wildly stomping through the dense woods, he eventually slumped to the leafy floor. He considered for a while of giving himself in. The idea of falsifying information about Morganth in return for leniency had also crossed his mind. But he knew that Duchamp would never offer him such a deal. After a quick repose, he pressed on, rising to his feet and wading through the bushes and shrubs in the pitch black.

As he pushed onwards in what he estimated was an easterly direction, he could see a very faint set of lights to his right. He ignored all the logical advice in his head and made for these shining beacons. As he drew closer, he realised that they were road-side torches flanking a wide path which ran through the woods. He approached with caution and once he got within ten metres of the road, he ducked down behind a tree, waited and watched. It was the main road that led to the entrance of Stormwind, yet Carod had been disorientated so much that his brain did not relate the road as one that was linked to that city.

He waited for five minutes, looking up one end and then down the other. He wondered if he could follow it and use it to guide him away from his captors. It was empty and not a soul was to be seen, and the idea of idly strolling down its length was one that he seriously considered. It would be the last thing they would expect!

Then the sound of galloping hooves approached from further down the road, and a white stead and rider came storming into view from the darkness. It was a woman who was pushing the horse to its limits. Carod watched as this white flash shot down the road, passed his tree and disappeared from view as it sped away. Without having been afforded a good look at the rider's face, he instantly knew who it was. He immediately turned in the opposite direction to merge deeper into the solid black forest. He cast off all notions of using the roads, and would stick to the twisting wilds of the woods. He did not know what dwelled in there, but at this very moment in time, meeting something foul in the darkness was far more preferable than being discovered by Duchamp.

It was there and then he was resolved to stay alive, but not for reasons that he had once adhered to. For weeks, all he thought about was getting back to Lakeshire, returning to his old life, but now he knew this was now impossible. That chapter was over. The unpredictable hands of fate that had moved, shook and twisted him were irreversible and all he could do now is ride it's endless, cruel rapids. But to survive would not be easy. He knew very little of the world beyond Lakeshire, he had no worldly experience, and would have to resort to deplorable methods just to stay alive, at first at least. He had no money, no map, and no idea of where he was to go. For now, he would just keep moving forward into lands unknown to him, knowing full well that he would be wanted by the authorities. And remaining undetected would not be easy either. He would have to disappear completely, forging a new identity for himself. He then began to wonder if he would ever be able to return as himself? Would Stormwind eventually give up the chase? Would they really waste time and money tracking him down and bringing him to justice?

He knew his future would not be easy but he was determined to survive, to claw something back from this wreck. His journey would be long, strange and difficult but it was a journey that had now started. And from that moment on, he was no longer Carod Osmund,

But all these thoughts of his future had to be put on hold. All he had to do right now was get as much distance between him and that woman as possible.


End file.
